


Falling Apart to Half-Time

by miss_begonia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Bathing/Washing, Competition, Dirty Dancing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Military, Original Character(s), Roommates, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate thinks: <i>Not dancing is not living. </i>He doesn't say it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Apart to Half-Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goshemily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/gifts).



_The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews  
Not to be born is the best for man  
The second best is a formal order  
The dance’s pattern, dance while you can.  
Dance, dance, for the figure is easy  
The tune is catching and will not stop  
Dance till the stars come down with the rafters  
Dance, dance, dance till you drop.  
  
(“Death’s Echo,” W.H. Auden)  
  
  
Oh my God, Brad wants to be a ballerina? That’s my fucking dream!  
(Ray Person, “Stay Frosty”)_  
  
*  
  
CASEY KASEM (HOST)  
Why’d you decide to try out for this dance competition?  
  
PERSON  
Because this face is obviously made for television, hello.  
  
HASSER  
Who is this guy?  
  
PERSON  
(holds out hand)  
Ray Person. Much obliged.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
And you are…  
  
FICK  
Nathaniel Fick.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Nathaniel Fick, tell me a little about yourself.  
  
FICK  
Not a lot to tell, really. I’m from Baltimore. I trained in contemporary…  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Any styles you think you might struggle with on this show?  
  
FICK  
Isn’t the point to try every style of dance? To show how versatile you are?  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Well—  
  
PERSON  
Fick here is telling you to back off, sir.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
How about you, Ray Person?  
  
PERSON  
Call me Mr. Versatility. I will fuck your shit up. I will—  
  
CASEY KASEM  
We can’t use that. You know we can’t—  
  
PERSON  
I will dance like I’ve never danced before! I will buy the world a Coke! I will—  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Cut. Cut the cameras, please.  
  
*

  
  
When Nate Fick was eight years old, he fell asleep during an Alvin Ailey dance recital at the Kennedy Center and woke up in the middle to see someone fly. He opened his eyes, disoriented and confused, and saw a single dancer standing center stage, arms outstretched, one leg lifted, back arched into an S-curve.  
  
He thought: _He’s going to meet the sky._  
  
Fourteen years later Nate is here at this Hollywood hotel, and he is about to dance in front of some of the most famous choreographers in the world. The room backstage smells of hardwood and sweat. Hundreds of other dancers now inhabit this space, waiting their turn to try out. B-boys spin and flip. Long-legged girls in tights and leotards stretch against the walls. Pairs of dancers clad in shimmering costumes practice turns, heels clicking on tile, sheer fabric swishing around their hips.  
  
Nate is a good dancer. He tries to remind himself of this as he warms up and prepares to face the judges. Whatever happens, he will still be good at this. He can always go back to Dartmouth in the fall and finish his degree. So what if dancing doesn’t become his career? Nate has other strengths. He likes politics. He’s stubborn as hell and enjoys arguing. He’d probably make a decent lawyer – at least then his dad would be happy.  
  
But when they call his name over the loudspeaker and he strides down the hallway to the stage, he realizes just how much he wants this. He wants to prove himself in front of the judges and his friends and family, and yeah, a petty part of him wants Craig Schwetje to turn on his huge fucking flat screen TV and see what he’s missing.  
  
More than anything, though, Nate wants to confirm what deep down inside he already knows: that dancing matters.  
  
“Nathaniel Fick from Baltimore, Maryland,” the square-jawed judge seated center rasps out. “Show us what you’ve got, young man.”  
  
Nate steps into the spotlight, raises his hand in the air, and lets himself fly.  
  


*

  
  
“You know, I don’t know jack and shit about contemporary dance, but I dug your audition, dude,” says Ray Person.  
  
Ray is wearing giant sunglasses and a t-shirt that proclaims _Rock Out With Your C*** Out_. He has long-ish, greasy dark hair, and is thin and wiry and talks too fast, the syntax of the constantly overcaffeinated. He’s from Missouri and does hip-hop, because “what the fuck else cool is there for a white boy to do in Missouri? I am not the fucking farming type, homes. I think that much is clear.”  
  
Ray takes a drag on his cigarette and watches the endless parade of wannabe dancer contestants stream in and out of the huge hotel doors. Nate has never seen so many tank tops and leg warmers in his life. In Baltimore, male dancers are about as common as tropical fish in the Inner Harbor.  
  
“You think any of them are good?” Ray asks.  
  
Nate shrugs. “Some of them have gotta be.”  
  
“Whoa,” Ray says, suddenly. “That must be Brad.”  
  
Nate has no idea who this “Brad” is, but when he follows Ray’s gaze to a lone figure standing on the front steps of the hotel, he thinks he understands Ray’s sudden awed silence.  
  
The first thing Nate notices about Brad is his legs. Nate is not even a leg man, per se, but Brad’s legs are…noticeable. He’s wearing a pair of loose dance pants and a white tank top, and he’s stretching, bending in half to touch his toes. God, his legs are long. Brad goes on forever, all six foot whatever of him, lean and muscular and blond and tan and beautiful.  
  
But…everyone here is hot. They’re auditioning for a televised dance competition, after all. Take Walt, the sweet guy he met at callbacks. He’s from somewhere down South so he has a sexy drawl, gorgeous blue eyes, great bone structure and a dancer’s solid body. Or there’s Rudy, a personal trainer from California, who’s so elegant and cut he looks like he stepped off the pages of some high fashion muscle-building magazine.  
  
These are just two examples of many, and yet somehow none of them turn Nate’s crank the way Brad does.  
  
It’s inexplicable, especially because Brad is apparently a total douchebag. When Brad walks past, Nate shoots a friendly greeting his way, but Brad offers only a single curt nod in return, not even a hello.  
  
Given the way his last relationship turned out, it’s possible that Nate’s type is a total douchebag. How else to explain how long he stayed with Craig? The guy was a Neanderthal.  
  


*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
So what made you want to be a dancer, Nate?  
  
FICK  
When I saw professionals dance, I thought: _I want to be able to do that._ I wanted to be able to move the way they did, to fly.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
When did you know you wanted to make dancing your life?  
  
FICK  
(laughs)  
I still don’t know that for sure.  
  
  
*

  
  
At dinner at Panera with a bunch of the guys after the first round of auditions, Ray says scuttlebutt is that Brad was known as “The Iceman” back when he used to dance with the Los Angeles Ballet.  
  
Nate chokes on his bite of salad and almost dies. Poke has to pound him on the back just to dislodge it so he can breathe again.  
  
“Brad is a _ballet_ dancer?” Nate gasps.  
  
“That’s the word, dog,” Poke says.  
  
Poke and Rudy are ballroom dancers, though Nate’s having a hard time imagining Poke (who, with his shaved head and bulky frame, looks more like a football player than a dancer) tearing up the salsa or the foxtrot. Still, he claims he has the “Latin hips.”  
  
“Are you okay?” Ray asks. “I wasn’t trying to kill you, man.”  
  
“Brad is huge,” Nate says.  
  
“I don’t know, people used to tell me I was too small for ballet,” Walt says. “That’s why I started doing contemporary. Less partnering.”  
  
“That is the gayest thing I have ever heard,” Ray says. “Congratulations on your homo, Hasser.”  
  
“Where do you think you are, Ray?” Walt demands. “This is a dance competition. Just because you’re a b-boy doesn’t make you butch.”  
  
“Not b-boy, _hip-hop_ ,” Ray corrects. “I definitely dabbled in breaking, popping and locking when I was younger, but my range extends beyond that now.”  
  
Walt shoots Ray a disparaging look.  
  
“Whatever, Brad is a ballet dancer, and I fully believe he could kick my ass,” Ray continues. “Obviously this means some dancers are gayer than others.”  
  
“I hope Brad is on the gayer end of the spectrum,” Nate mutters, then blushes when he realizes he said that out loud.  
  
“Wow,” Poke says, lifting an eyebrow. “You got quite a boner for the Iceman there, Fick.”  
  
“Yeah, you better get that under control before group auditions begin,” Ray says. “Those little capris you wear don’t hide a whole hell of a lot.”  
  
“Shut up, Ray.”  
  
“I heard ballet dancers are super-flexible. You think Brad can—”  
  
“I said shut up, Ray.”

*

  
  
“Fuck, my feet hurt,” Walt says.  
  
He and Nate are crouched over in one corner of the auditorium, resting while they wait for the last group to be done with choreography.  
  
“Are you taping your toes?” Nate asks.  
  
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” Walt says. “It wasn’t even my audition piece, it’s this fucking ballroom shit. My feet are not used to turning out that way.”  
  
“At least you did okay with it,” Nate says. “I am never laughing at those crazy costumes again. Ballroom is impossible.”  
  
“You looked like you did all right,” Walt says. “That chick you were dancing with, Tracy? She helped you through. And you pick up steps quick.”  
  
“’Sup, my wiggas?” Ray shouts, plopping himself down beside Walt and punching Walt in the shoulder. Walt makes a face at him. “I saw you do the cha-cha, Nate. Didn’t know you WASP-y motherfuckers could shake your hips like that!”  
  
“Thanks,” Nate says dryly.  
  
Walt presses his hand into the ball of his foot and winces.  
  
“You okay there, Walt?” Ray asks. “You look like you need a foot massage. You want me to give you a foot massage?”  
  
Walt’s eyes widen. “N-no. I’m fine.”  
  
“Your loss, dude. My hands are certified miracle workers. I have made several chicks orgasm just from—”  
  
“How are you, my brothers?” Rudy says, emerging out of nowhere and floating down next to them. He sits cross-legged and fixes his steady gaze on them. For a big guy, Rudy moves like a ninja.  
  
“Could be better,” Walt mutters.  
  
“I was watching that last group,” Rudy remarks. “The Iceman dominated. You know, they often say ballet dancers aren’t adaptable to other styles, but I think that Brad’s not that way at all. He did an incredible foxtrot.”  
  
“Maybe he has ballroom training too,” Nate says.  
  
Rudy shakes his head. “I spoke with him earlier, and he told me he’s only ever trained in ballet. He didn’t seem nervous about trying his hand at other styles, though. He is a true warrior of dance – ready to tackle anything.”  
  
Nate smothers a sigh. Brad is an incredibly hot, Nordic super-dancer who is also totally immune to Nate’s charms. Natch.  
  
“I think we have a difficult journey ahead of us,” Rudy observes.  
  
“Stay frosty, dudes,” Ray says, and gives them a mock salute.  
  


*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
If you make the top 20, what will you do?

  
  
BEGIN MONTAGE

FICK  
I’ll compete for the title. No retreat, no surrender.  
  
PERSON  
I’m going to Disneyland, bitches!  
  
ESPERA  
I think I’ll try to show America why they picked me. Why I deserve to be here.  
  
REYES  
I try to make my own karma. I just want to show the world something beautiful.  
  
HASSER  
I…I think I’ll concentrate on not falling on my face.  
  
COLBERT  
What was the question?  
  
CASEY KASEM  
If you make the Top 20…  
  
COLBERT  
I’ll dance.

  
  
END MONTAGE  
  


*

  
  
_Top twenty. Top twenty._  
  
Nate can’t breathe.  
  
“We’re pleased to welcome you to the competition, Mr. Fick,” Bryan Patterson tells him with an encouraging smile.  
  
Nate can’t believe BRYAN-FUCKING-PATTERSON is talking to him right now. The man practically reinvented modern dance post-Martha Graham, and now he KNOWS NATE’S NAME.  
  
At any point now Nate will stop thinking in capital letters.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Nate breathes. “Thank you so much.”  
  
“You’ve got a tough road ahead of you, so go get some shut-eye,” Ferrando gasps out. “Someone will let you know which room you’ll have in the house ASAP.”  
  
“Thank you,” Nate repeats. “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”  
  
The judges nod and smile.  
  
All Nate’s limbs have gone to jelly; he has to practically peel himself off the stage.  
  
“Top twenty, motherfuckers!” Ray crows at Nate when he emerges from backstage. Poke and Rudy and Walt all congratulate him with hugs and back slaps. They gossip about which other guys made it – some super-angry do-rag-wearing hip-hop dancer named Doc, a goofy b-boy named Stafford, a slow-talking ballroom dancer nicknamed Gunny, and a contemporary dancer named Trombley that everybody seems to agree is a total psycho.  
  
“He told me he thought my feet looked like they had gangrene,” Walt says. “I hate that dude.”  
  
“The invitation for a foot massage is still standing, Hasser,” Ray leers. “C’mon, what are you afraid of?”  
  
“You,” Walt says.  
  
Someone clears his throat behind them, and all conversation goes instantly silent. Nate turns to see Brad, standing there looking casually gorgeous in a pair of well-fitting jeans and an Air Supply t-shirt.  
  
“What’s up, gents,” Brad says. “You’re Nate, right?”  
  
Nate has no idea how Brad knows who he is, given that they’ve never been formally introduced. Then again, Nate knows a fair amount about Brad without ever having spoken to him.  
  
“Yeah,” Nate says, a bit wary.  
  
“I think we’re roommates,” Brad says. “Good to meet you, sir.”  
  
He holds out his hand for Nate to shake. Nate is intensely aware, even over the sound of his own heart doing the quickstep in his chest, of Ray and Poke beside him, shaking with silent laughter.

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
What scares you as a dancer?  
  
HASSER  
Failure. Making mistakes.  
  
PERSON  
I’m not afraid of anything, dude! Well, okay, maybe getting hurt. Because that would suck.  
  
HASSER  
Totally.  
  
PERSON  
Did you just agree with me? Oh my God, call the newspaper! Tell TMZ that—  
  
  
HASSER  
Shut up, Ray.  
  
  
*

  
  
A week later, Nate is back in L.A. and ready to settle into his new living arrangements for the competition. He dropped his bags off at the house he’ll be sharing with the Top Ten guys and took Ray’s loud invitation to come hang with everybody at a bar in West Hollywood.  
  
Over the last week, Nate went home to Baltimore, got some awkward encouragement from his family and friends, squared his life away for the next five weeks, and came to terms with the fact that he’s going to be rooming with a guy who happens to be both an incredible dancer and insanely attractive.  
  
Which is obviously why he is now drinking heavily.  
  
“Fuck my fucking life,” Nate says, swallowing the last of a shot of tequila.  
  
“Get this man another drink,” Ray shouts, signaling to the bartender with a twist of his wrist, and really, where did Nate go wrong in his life that he’s allowing Ray Person to order him drinks? That seems dangerous.  
  
“Dog, it could be worse,” Poke says. “You could have to share a bed.”  
  
“Don’t you get it, Espera?” Ray asks. “Nate wants to share a bed with the Iceman. Nate wants to melt the Iceman’s cold, cold heart.”  
  
“Fuck you, Ray,” Nate sneers, and downs the shot he hands him.  
  
“It’s okay, dude,” Ray says, patting him on the back. “Take your frustrations out on me. I don’t mind. This is a fucking frustrating situation. I get it. Dancing is harder with perpetual blue balls. No pun intended.”  
  
“You know what I would do?” Poke advises. “I’d get it all out there in the open right up front. Just tell him you’re attracted to him. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”  
  
Nate tilts his head to one side. Brad’s sitting across the room, observing the crowd with a beer in his hand. Doc’s ranting about something, gesticulating wildly with his hands, and Brad is nodding along but not actually participating in the conversation. He lifts the beer to his mouth and Nate can see the tendons flex in his bare arm.  
  
Nate closes his eyes.  
  
“He could punch me in the face,” Nate says.  
  
“Okay, point,” Poke concedes.  
  
“Hey, but you know what? That might totally throw him off his game,” Ray says. “Which would be to all of our advantages, basically, since Brad’s some kind of freaky dance genius.”  
  
“So you’re saying I should take one for the team?” Nate says. “Humiliate myself so we all might have a chance at winning this competition?”  
  
“It would be the right thing to do,” Ray says, nodding sagely. “It would improve morale and shit.”  
  
“You’re all useless,” Nate announces.  
  
“Have another drink?” Ray says.  
  


*

  
  
The tricky thing about alcohol is that ideas that seemed dumb as fuck a few drinks ago become suddenly genius once you’ve got enough of a buzz going on.  
  
This is how Nate ends up sidling over to Brad, only slightly unsteady on his feet, getting all up into his personal space, fisting his hand in Brad’s shirt and saying, “Dance with me.”  
  
Brad’s eyebrows climb his forehead and his lips part. It’s the biggest reaction Nate’s seen anyone get out of him thusfar. He doesn’t push Nate away, but he doesn’t exactly jump on the chance to tango either.  
  
“Is this some kind of getting-to-know-you roommate ritual?” Brad asks, voice low.  
  
“Something like that,” Nate says, and slides his hand into the back pocket of Brad’s jeans. He feels Brad tense against him.  
  
“You’re drunk,” Brad says.  
  
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Nate says. “I still want to dance with you.”  
  
“Are you a good dancer when you’re drunk?” Brad says.  
  
“Are you?” Nate volleys back.  
  
“I’m not drunk,” Brad says, “but yes, I am.”  
  
“Then show me what you’ve got,” Nate says, and tugs Brad forward.  
  
_Yeah I wanna dance with somebody_ , comes through the crappy bar sound system. _I wanna feel the heat with somebody…_  
  
Brad’s hands fall to Nate’s waist, fingers curling around his hips. Brad’s hands are huge. Everything about Brad is huge. Nate tries to keep that train of thought from progressing.  
  
“You’re kind of bossy, Fick,” Brad murmurs in Nate’s ear. “Are you always this bossy?”  
  
“Only when it gets me what I want,” Nate says.  
  
_Jesus, what the hell am I saying?_  
  
Brad smiles, his lips curving up at one corner, and God, he’s sexy when he does that. His blue eyes are intense, hot. He doesn’t look away when Nate pulls him closer, and their bodies press together.  
  
“You’re not a bad dancer when you’re drunk,” Brad says.  
  
Nate bristles, because he is a fucking _amazing_ dancer when he’s drunk. He is like Fosse and Baryshnikov and Patrick Swayze rolled into one, if that juxtaposition made any kind of sense.  
  
“You’re not bad yourself,” Nate says, and grinds against Brad until he hears his breath catch.  
  
“Nate—” Brad says, and suddenly his heat is gone. He lets go of Nate’s hips and moves away. He’s slightly pink in the cheeks.  
  
“What the fuck, Brad?” Nate demands. “The song’s not even over yet.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Brad says, and his voice doesn’t allow for arguments. He gestures between them. “But this is.”  
  
He leaves Nate alone in the middle of the dance floor.  
  
Nate can feel the eyes of the other dancers on him. He wants to punch Brad in the face, fuck up his pretty cheekbones.  
  
He still wants to dance with Brad.  
  
“Whoa, dude,” Ray says, having magically appeared at his side like some kind of magnet attracted to mortification. “Turns out the Iceman is aptly nick-named.”  
  
Nate’s jaw locks, and he curls his hand into a fist.  
  
“You’re not even going to tell me to fuck off?” Ray says. “Shit, man, this is serious.”  
  
“I’m going to bed,” Nate says, voice flat. “We have to be up early.”  
  
Ray is looking at him with concern. “Uh, yeah, but…”  
  
“I’ll see you,” Nate says, and pushes past Ray and out the door.  
  
First call is at 7 am, but Nate’s going to get up at 5. He’s going to need all the extra practice time he can get if he’s going to beat Brad Colbert’s super-powered dance warrior ass.

*

  
  
The next morning Nate wakes up disoriented when his alarm goes off, blasting cheerful pop music at top volume. It is way too early in the day for a Jonas brother, even the cute one, and also? He is too hungover to live.  
  
He slams his hand down on the radio, only managing to raise the volume, and hears Ray shout from next door, “Fuck you _and_ your mother, Fick!”  
  
He doesn’t even get the satisfaction of waking up Brad, because Brad is nowhere to be found. Nate didn’t hear him come back to their room last night either, and his bed is made up with impossibly tight corners. Maybe he requested a room transfer. That would be a lucky break, and Lord knows Nate is deserving of one of those at this point.  
  
But when he goes to wash the sleep out of his eyes in the bathroom, he notices Brad’s tidy shaving kit sitting on the edge of the sink and his bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the shelf in the shower. _Huh._ Maybe Brad just found somewhere else to spend the night. Nate can’t really blame him. Given how aggressive Nate was last night, Brad probably feared Nate would try to molest him in his sleep.  
  
Nate goes through the motions of his morning ritual, tamping down feelings of nausea. Almost as an afterthought, he viciously spreads his toiletries all over the bathroom. Hopefully that will piss off Brad’s compulsively neat ass.  
  
Downstairs in one of several empty practice rooms, Nate warms up his tight muscles with some yoga. Normally Nate does some meditation to get himself in the zone, but today his focus is for shit. Every time he closes his eyes he feels Brad’s hands at his hips, breath warm against his ear.  
  
_You’re kind of bossy, Fick. Are you always this bossy?_  
  
“Oh – sorry, I thought—“  
  
Nate nearly jumps out of his skin when Brad appears, reflected in the mirrored wall. He’s standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt that’s sweated through. He looks like he wants to teleport elsewhere but can’t find his machine.  
  
Nate doesn’t even bother turning around.  
  
“You’re getting an early start,” Nate says.  
  
Brad runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “You too.”  
  
“Running tightens your muscles,” Nate says.  
  
He knows he sounds pissy, but he doesn’t care.  
  
“I know,” Brad says, “but it helps me focus. I’m going to stretch now. I’ll find another practice room. Look, Nate—”  
  
“Don’t even worry about it,” Nate cuts him off. “It’s fine, I don’t even remember—“  
  
“I was going to say good luck.”  
  
He stares at Brad’s reflection in the mirror. Brad looks like he’s holding back a smile.  
  
“Thanks,” Nate says. “You too.”  
  
_I hope you choke and die_ , he thinks, and definitely does not look at Brad’s ass as he walks away.  
  


*

  
  
“I hurt everywhere,” Ray complains as they sit down for lunch at Souplantation. “How the hell did I get stuck with the quickstep first time around? I’m going home for sure.”  
  
Nate got contemporary and his routine is simple, so he can’t really complain, but he still managed to have the morning from hell. His lines weren’t as smooth as usual, and he completely fucked up a spin five times in a row that he normally has no trouble doing.  
  
“Heard Brad is doing hip-hop,” Poke says. “That shit should be hilarious.”  
  
Nate stabs a piece of lettuce with his fork. He wishes this was one of his dressing days. He could use some Ranch right now, even the crappy light kind.  
  
“You look distressed, my brother,” Rudy says.  
  
“You have something you need to discuss, man?” Poke asks. “Rudy’s right. You look straight up murderous.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Nate says.  
  
“You straighten things out with Brad?” Ray asks.  
  
“No,” Nate says.  
  
“You need my help to smooth things over?” Ray says. “I’m pretty good at talking, in case you didn’t notice. I’m sure I could explain that it was Poke’s dumbass idea—“  
  
“Hey, fuck you, it was not a dumbass idea,” Poke says. “How was I supposed to know that Brad would shaft Nate like that? I’m not familiar with the mating rituals of the white man, but I figured it was a sure thing. Nate here seems like everybody’s type.”  
  
“It’s true, you are classic twink pretty,” Ray says. “I personally was shocked. We already agreed that the only person surpassing you in beauty among the Top Ten dudes is Rudy, but that’s like saying you’re second to a God, so—”  
  
“We can’t always understand the ways of the human heart,” Rudy says, squeezing Nate’s shoulder.  
  
“I don’t think that was Brad’s _heart_ Nate was appealing to last night,” Ray mumbles around a mouthful of pasta. “Anyway, Brad looked like he was enjoying—“  
  
“Hey, look, can we just not talk about this anymore?” Nate says. “Talk about the fucking quickstep some more.”  
  
There’s a moment of silence, and then Ray pipes up, “Who is responsible for the invention of the quickstep, anyway? Because that shit is retarded. And I’m coming from a dance tradition where we spin on our heads. I’m just saying.”  
  
“It’s probably some idiot white dude,” Poke says. “It always is.”  
  
“It’s because most white dudes can’t dance, so they invent complicated shit in order to mask their inferiority,” Ray says. “I have no other explanation for it. Like, the jive? There is no decent reason to move like that.”  
  
“Agreed,” Poke says, spearing a piece of zucchini. “Samba is where it’s at.”  
  


*

  
  
After practice is over, Nate skips dinner in favor of going upstairs to his room. He wants to be alone. He’s exhausted but still too tightly wound to sleep, so he flicks on the TV and lets _The Daily Show_ be his white noise while he unpacks.  
  
His suitcase mostly contains dance clothes – sweats, tank tops, t-shirts – as well as his iPod, a book on Sufi meditation, and Zen candles he likes to use sometimes when he takes a bath. He brought two other books, though he doesn’t anticipate having much time to read: a copy of _In the Graveyard of Empires: America’s War in Afghanistan_ to prepare for a poli-sci course he’s scheduled to take in the fall on U.S. foreign policy, and a heavy coffee table book containing a collection of photographs and reproductions of the work of Degas.  
  
Nate is well aware that Ray would probably call him a giant homo for his Degas obsession, or maybe just a total cliché, but he doesn’t care. His fascination with Degas dates back to shortly after he started to get serious about dance, when he was about 13 years old. At the National Gallery in D.C. he once spent three hours staring at the Degas sculptures, riveted by their curves and angles, amazed at the way he captured the lines of the body in motion. Degas’ sculptures seemed to be the opposite of static. Nate had no problem imagining them coming alive and moving through space, graceful and light and beautiful, no longer weighed down by heavy plaster or clay or stone.  
  
Nate’s dad was encouraging of his obsession at first, believing Nate’s passion for Degas had something to do with his love for ballerinas and thus _chicks_ , but once he realized Nate’s true love was for dance itself, he became less enthusiastic. His dad has never completely condemned Nate’s dancer aspirations, but he always seems to be hoping Nate will get over it, like dancing is some phase Nate has to go through on his way to an actual career. Nate knows it’s a lot to ask for – his dad’s whole-hearted support of a risky and most likely short-lived future in the arts – but that doesn’t stop him from wanting it.  
  
Truthfully, Nate’s relationship with Degas is as complicated as his relationship with his father. He loves Degas, but sometimes he hates him too. Degas never painted or drew male dancers. They must have existed; male ballet dancers have been around as long as ballet has been around. But Degas’ focus was singular, feminine and thus more socially acceptable. Degas never would have used Nate as a subject, Nate or anyone like him.  
  
“Those are beautiful,” Brad says over his shoulder, and Nate almost loses his shit.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “You have got to stop sneaking up on me like that.”  
  
“I did not sneak up on you,” Brad says. “You were just very absorbed.”  
  
Nate sighs and makes to close the book, but Brad stops him, hand on the page.  
  
He leans forward, and Nate can feel the heat of his body.  
  
“I like the one with the – that one,” he says.  
  
He points to a sculpture entitled _Little Dancer, Aged 14_ , of a girl dancer with her back arched, body lithe and bowed like a violin.  
  
“Mmm,” Nate hums. “I like that one too.”  
  
There is a moment of tight silence as they both examine the sculpture. Brad is solid and still behind him.  
  
Nate wants to lean back.  
  
Brad clears his throat.  
  
“I’m going to take a shower. I won’t bother you.”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Nate says. “I think I’m going to crash soon.”  
  
Brad observes Nate for a moment with his careful blue eyes.  
  
“Are we – are we okay, Nate?”  
  
Nate doesn’t know what to say to that. He guesses they are – that they have to be. He shrugs.  
  
Brad nods, as if he understands Nate’s ambivalence as acceptance.  
  
“You know what Degas never showed in his work?” Brad says lightly. “Dancers’ feet, up close and personal. Nobody wants to see that horror show.”  
  
Nate smiles.  
  
Brad disappears into the bathroom for his shower.  
  
_I am not supposed to like this guy_ , Nate thinks. _He is impossible to read and a douchebag._  
  
But Brad likes Degas. Nate has a hard time hating anyone who understands Degas.  
  


*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
What do you think about when you dance?  
  
COLBERT  
I think about the steps. I think about the way they tell a story.  
  
  
*

  
  
Nate’s first week routine is easy, which is a blessing. He watches Ray struggle to learn quickstep in three days and Poke clomp his way through a jazz piece that’s somehow themed around hostage negotiation, and he’s silently grateful that he’s been given one week to show off in his own style before he’s shoved out of his comfort zone.  
  
He’s so busy working with his partner Tracy and his choreographer Pappy that he hardly sees Brad the whole week. He’s up at 5 am every morning but Brad’s up even earlier, and by the time Brad gets back, Nate’s asleep. Nate’s given up on investing as much time in practicing as Brad does; it’s impossible. Brad never seems to eat with the rest of them either, and that’s just fine. Nate concentrates better when Brad’s not there, and by the time the first performance show rolls around, he’s fairly confident about their performance.  
  
“We’re gonna kick that piece’s ass,” Tracy says in her sweet Southern lilt, and kisses Nate on the cheek.  
  
Tracy’s the best partner Nate can ask for: talented but not an ounce of diva in her, focused and hard-working and funny. Like all the girls picked, she’s beautiful: long, blonde hair she twists up into complicated buns and braids and grey eyes that sparkle when she laughs. She and Nate are a lot alike, and while this might not make for particularly stirring chemistry, it does mean they’ve got a solid working relationship.  
  
“Be careful, Nate,” Ray says, eyeing Tracy as she walks away. “You might make Brad jealous.”  
  
Nate rolls his eyes. “I doubt I’m capable of making Brad Colbert feel anything.”  
  
Ray raises his eyebrows.  
  
“I don’t know about that,” he says. “Brad and I have been chatting—“  
  
“You and Brad are bffs now? There’s a Brad and Ray sewing circle?” Nate asks, trying to tamp down the anxiety that thought inspires.  
  
“I think it takes a bit longer than a week to get past Brad’s reinforced Titanium walls,” Ray says, ignoring Nate’s attempts at levity, “but he did tell me he thinks you’re kind of awesome.”  
  
Nate blinks. “He said that?”  
  
“Well, what he said was, ‘Nate Fick’s all right,’ but in Iceman-ish that obviously means he’s hot for your bod,” Ray says.  
  
“Thanks for the translation,” Nate says.  
  
“Hey, no problem, buddy,” Ray says, and slaps him on the back.  
  


*

  
  
  
Nate knew his first performance on the show would last a little less than two minutes, but he still didn’t expect it to be over so quickly. He’s barely stepped onto the stage before he’s done. The floor is solid and dusty beneath his bare feet and then gone, gone as he lifts away, and then people are applauding and Tracy is grasping his arm and hugging him around the waist and whispering in his ear, “You are amazing. We are amazing.”  
  
She holds his hand while the judges evaluate them, and Nate is silently grateful for the contact.  
  
Ferrando, a boxy guy with a crew cut of grey hair who used to choreograph some military-themed hip-hop dance troupe, tells them he thinks Nate and Tracy are well-matched, but that “I’d like to see a bit more aggressiveness from you, Nate.”  
  
Nate has no idea what that means, but he’ll parse it out later. He’s instantly distracted by Sixta, a short, square man with squinty eyes who shouts into the microphone, “I like the routine all right, but what in the hell are you two wearing?”  
  
The dancers don’t actually get to pick out their costumes, so this seems like an unfair critique, but Nate will readily admit that their outfits are ridiculous. Nate’s wearing brown leather pants that lace up the sides and no shirt, and Tracy’s wearing a leather bustier over a short leather skirt. They look like they’re dressed for some rager of an S&M party, and it’s all very sweaty.  
  
“You two are talented,” Patterson cuts in, and Nate is instantly all ears. Patterson is SO FUCKING AWESOME. “You’ve got flawless technique, Nate, and you support Tracy well as a partner. But this is your own style. The key will be seeing how you adapt to the other styles you’re given.”  
  
Nate nods, feeling his heart sink in his chest. He knows this to be an obvious truth: anyone can be excellent in the area they’ve trained in. The challenge comes from trying something new.  
  


*

  
  
Poke manages to pull off the hostage-themed jazz routine, Ray gets props for not falling on his face during the quick-step, Rudy does a stellar cha-cha (“So _that’s_ what they mean by Cuban motion,” Tracy observes from backstage, eyes never leaving Rudy’s backside), Trombley does a disturbing waltz that so confuses the judges they barely manage any comments at all, Walt is exquisitely graceful in his contemporary routine about cancer, Gunny completely bombs hip-hop, Stafford does a passable rumba, and Doc slays the jive like he was born to do it.  
  
Brad is up last. Nate realizes with a sudden shiver that he’s never actually seen Brad dance. During auditions they somehow always missed each other, so he only heard about Brad secondhand. Since The Drunk Incident, Nate hasn’t been able to deal with the possibility that Brad might catch him watching, and he’s steered clear of any practice room that might contain him.  
  
Part of Nate wants it to be all hype, for Brad to be a sham, for him to croak during hip-hop like everybody expects him to. But part of him also wants Brad to be as amazing as advertised. Part of him wants Brad to blow his mind.  
  
He and his partner Carly are dancing to a song that builds and pulses and oscillates between slow-sweet R &B and classic thumpa-thumpa. Carly’s a hip-hop dancer, so Brad’s got that advantage, but if this truly is the first time Brad’s ever danced this style, this is not a routine to ease him into it. It’s tight and fast and has a bunch of moves that Nate wouldn’t have the first clue how to do.  
  
Brad is amazing. He is focused and precise and aligned with the rhythm, but more than anything he is enjoyable to watch. He has energy and technique, and he treats Carly like she’s an equal, a partner and an adversary all at once.  
  
Nate still doesn’t know what Brad’s like as a ballet dancer, but he’s a hell of a hip-hop dancer. His intensity is magnetic, and when they finish with a dip that looks dangerous and difficult, the room explodes with astonished applause.  
  
“I don’t even know what to say to you,” Ferrando says. “You’re already slaying dragons, Brad. People might assume that ballet dancers aren’t capable of what you just did, but you’ve proven them wrong. You’ve certainly proven Ferrando wrong.”  
  
“I have no thoughts on your grooming,” Sixta obliges. Unlike Nate, who is clearly hated by the costume department, Brad is clothed in a simple white oxford shirt and blue linen pants, while Carly sports a similar ensemble with a linen skirt. “You look impeccable.”  
  
Patterson takes a moment as if he’s collecting his thoughts.  
  
“You’re the one to beat, Brad,” he says, finally, his dark eyes wide. “If you can adapt to new styles every week like you did with this one, no one will be able to touch you.”  
  
Brad is smiling his small, mysterious smile.  
  
Nate’s chest burns.  
  


*

  
  
Trombley and Gunny go home that week, along with their unremarkable partners – not much of a surprise, as everyone had agreed they were total cannon fodder. Nate’s not sorry to see Trombley go, especially after he spent one dinner conversation telling Nate about the many ways in which he likes to shoot dogs, but he’s bummed about Gunny. He might not be much of a b-boy, but Nate found Gunny’s slow-talking, easy-going manner refreshing amidst a crowd of tweaking divas.  
  
Brad picks contemporary for Week Two, which Nate would find a lot more satisfying (see how _he_ does in Nate’s style) if he hadn’t pulled rumba himself.  
  
Nate took a ballroom class once in high school, and he knows the basics of all the Latin dances, but competitive rumba is serious fucking business. He watches Garza, the fierce, bespectacled choreographer, guide Tracy through a series of complicated turns and lifts, and quietly panics. Nate’s a long way from Ms. Espinosa’s dance studio, populated mostly by old ladies and forty-somethings trying to recover their romantic “spark” through saucy Latin rhythms.  
  
Rudy is working with his partner on a jazz routine a couple doors down and stops by Nate’s practice room to check in while their choreographers are on a smoke break.  
  
“The key to rumba is understanding the hips,” Rudy tells him. “Here, let me show you.”  
  
Rudy places his hands on Nate’s hips, pressing until Nate relaxes and shifts his weight.  
  
“You’ve got to fight your training, brother,” Rudy says. “You have naturally smooth motion, but you sacrifice it in the name of extension.”  
  
Nate huffs, frustrated, and tries again, tilting his hips at a different angle. His shoulders give, and his spine straightens.  
  
“That is a nice visual,” Tracy says, watching from one corner of the room with a mischievous smile.  
  
Nate realizes then that Rudy’s shirtless (he always is, so Nate rarely notices) and they’re dancing very close. Good thing he stopped caring about things seeming homoerotic back when he figured out he was actually gay.  
  
“You’ll get it,” Rudy says cheerfully. “Be patient.”  
  
He pats Nate on the shoulder and leaves them to practice. Tracy follows him out with her eyes.  
  
“God, he is so hot it’s ridiculous,” Tracy says. “Why are all the good ones gay?”  
  
“Rudy’s not gay,” Nate says.  
  
Tracy lifts an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”  
  
Nate shrugs. “That’s what he told me. He said, ‘I’m straight but not narrow, my blessed dancer friend.’”  
  
Tracy blinks. “Well, then.”  
  
Nate holds out his hand, and Tracy takes it with a tired smile.  
  
“Shall we, my lady?” he asks.  
  
“Chemistry!” Garza barks from the doorway. “Simmer, Fick. Simmer!”

*

  
  
That night Nate skips dinner again in favor of collapsing in exhaustion. When he goes up to his room, though, he finds that he’s not alone. Brad is there, still dressed in his dance sweats and a tank top. He doesn’t seem to notice when Nate pushes open the door.  
  
Nate takes this rare opportunity to enjoy the view. He can’t help it, Brad is beautiful. His limbs are long and lean, muscular but not bulky, and he moves with the kind of grace and ease that Nate’s always wanted himself.  
  
Nate realizes with a start that Brad’s somehow acquired a record player, and the soft sounds of soul music drift from it. He recognizes the tune immediately: a classic, gut-punch of a song, ideal for a contemporary routine. Contemporary dancers can use any kind of music, as they’re not tied to a particular set of rhythms, but the best music is that which thrives on emotional intensity.  
  
Brad is trying to do a torso contraction, but his lines aren’t quite right. Nate’s got a decent eye for this sort of stuff – he used to volunteer at a dance studio for underprivileged kids in West Baltimore, and he spent many hours straightening arms and shifting legs, correcting angles.  
  
People think contemporary dance is just a lot of flopping around on stage, but there’s a precision to it, a method to the madness. After all, it does derive from the most anal of all dance disciplines: ballet.  
  
“No, you—” Nate moves forward and grasps Brad’s arm, pulling it backward so his shoulder curves differently. All of a sudden it’s perfect. He does it without thinking, and only realizes he’s touching Brad when Brad makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat like he’s choking.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry—“  
  
Nate stops and inhales sharply. They’re standing very close, and this is nothing like dancing with Rudy. The air crackles and vibrates. Nate has to struggle to remember to exhale.  
  
_He doesn’t like you like that_ , Nate reminds himself. _He made that abundantly clear._  
  
“It’s okay,” Brad says. His voice is hoarse. “Thank you. I’ve been fucking that up all day.”  
  
His eyes are a vivid blue, and Nate’s close enough that he can see the tiny scar on his cheekbone. He wants to ask how Brad got it.  
  
“Nate,” Brad whispers.  
  
“Hmm?” Nate says.  
  
“You’re…”  
  
Nate realizes he’s still holding onto Brad’s arm. He jerks away and lowers his eyes.  
  
“Really, thank you,” Brad says.  
  
Nate doesn’t respond.  
  
He sequesters himself in the bathroom for a shower so long the water goes cold, which is probably for the best anyway.  
  
That night Nate dreams about Brad sliding his hand down over Nate’s hip, tracing the curve of his hip bone with long fingers. Brad mouths something at him but Nate can’t understand what he’s saying. Only that it’s important.  
  
He wakes up incredibly turned on and confused and really, really pissed off.  
  


*

  
  
“I think you just gotta hit that, homes,” Ray says.  
  
They’re watching Brad warm up backstage before the show. Continuing his trend of costume reticence, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white tank top that shows off his well-defined forearms and California tan. Nate can’t really fault the costume department: why mess with perfection?  
  
Nate can’t even talk about his costume for the rumba. It involves sequins and gauzy pink fabric and ruffles. Rumba is supposed to be a sexy dance, but Nate can’t imagine anyone would want to fuck him in this unless they were certifiable, or maybe had a thing for clowns.  
  
“He doesn’t like me like that,” Nate says, voice flat.  
  
It’s the same sentence he’s been repeating all week, ever since the incident in their bedroom. Brad’s been avoiding him even more than usual, but it’s impossible for him to avoid Nate entirely, and every time they pass in the hallway or see each other in the elevator, Brad gives him a look that makes the hair on Nate’s neck stand up. He doesn’t know if it means Brad wants to fuck him or kill him, but _God_ , it is not conducive to Nate maintaining focus.  
  
“I disagree,” Ray says, because apparently they are still having this conversation. “I know Brad ran like a bitch that first night, but I know for a fact he is just as frustrated as you are.”  
  
Nate tries to massage out a knot in his calf.  
  
“I hate that you and Brad talk,” Nate says.  
  
“What can I say, dude,” Ray says, slipping on a pair of huge, gold-rimmed aviators. “We mesh.”  
  


*

  
  
Nate and Tracy’s rumba is all right. Nate doesn’t drop Tracy on any of the lifts, and they don’t look like they’re having seizures during the turns. In this way, he guesses, they are successful. Mostly they benefit from the fact that everyone else kind of sucks – Poke and his partner fuck up their hip-hop number something fierce, and Stafford’s African Jazz piece is (not surprisingly) a Katrina-level natural disaster.  
  
Amidst this dance massacre they show the intro video packages, perhaps to remind the audience that the contestants could, at some point in their lives, actually dance.  
  
The intro packages are the dumbest things Nate’s ever had to do, including some of the shit he did to become an Eagle Scout. He hates talking about himself, and doesn’t know why anyone should care about his dad the lawyer or his mom the social worker or his straight As at Catholic school or his boring suburban Baltimore upbringing. He’s a dancer, for fuck’s sake, not a politician. But America is voting, and apparently this means he needs to sell more than just his dance ability to win.  
  
Nate’s still sweating off his stage make-up and pawing at his hateful costume when Ray pounces on him backstage and clamps a hand down on his shoulder.  
  
“Dude, check it out.”  
  
Nate peers through the curtain to see they’re showing Brad’s backstory on the giant screens. He looks huge and gorgeous, as usual, but there’s a sadness in his pale blue-green eyes.  
  
“I wonder every day if I did the right thing, leaving the Marines,” Brad says. “But I couldn’t be part of a war that made no sense to me, a war where I saw children killed for no good reason. Maybe it makes me selfish, but I couldn’t do it anymore.”  
  
Ray’s hand tightens on Nate’s arm. Nate’s throat is dry.  
  
They show a shot of Brad in his dress blues, followed by one of him doing a pirouette.  
  
“Holy shit,” Ray says. “I don’t know if he just won or lost this competition.”  
  


*

  
  
Brad’s dancing is, as usual, flawless, so much so that he masks his partner Carly’s awkward stiffness.  
  
Nate watches Brad extend and twist and pictures him in camo fatigues, holding a gun, killing people. He feels numb.  
  
Nate thought about joining the military once, after seeing a Marine speak at Dartmouth. He’d been taken in by all the talk of heroism and discipline and honor, everything Nate had always loved about _The West Wing_ and _Band of Brothers_ , those fictional representations of what it means to serve your country. But when he’d mentioned it at Sunday dinner in the spring of his junior year, Nate’s dad told him he thought he was too soft for the military, that he wouldn’t be able to cut it.  
  
All Nate wanted to do was show him his messed up dancer feet, the bruises all over his body, make him feel what it is to wake up the morning after a tough practice, aching down to your bones, hurting to breathe. Nate doesn’t think being a dancer is as demanding as being a soldier – he’s not delusional – but he knows what it is to train your body to do impossible things, to push past the point of pain. He knows discipline. He wishes he knew how to show his father that.  
  
He watches Brad do the torso contortion, the move he was struggling with earlier in the week. The curve of his back is perfect, exactly the way Nate showed him.  
  
Nate doesn’t know what to feel. He thinks: _Maybe I don’t want to beat Brad Colbert._  
  


*

  
  
  
Backstage before the results show the next day, Walt is wincing. He did a tango the day before, and he and his partner Laura were actually one of the better couples to dance. Today, however, he’s struggling.  
  
“It’s my fucking feet, man,” Walt complains. “My arch feels like it’s on fire.”  
  
“Man up, Hasser,” Ray jokes. “Your feet too delicate for the harsh demands of ballroom?”  
  
Walt narrows his eyes at Ray, which shuts Ray up for the moment, and turns to Nate. “Do you think I should talk to somebody?”  
  
In Nate’s experience, doctors will always tell you not to dance. This would almost certainly mean Walt would be out of the competition. Walt is so good, and Nate doesn’t want to see him go. His desire is a selfish one, too; Walt’s the only other male contemporary dancer left in the competition, and Nate feels a sort of brotherhood with him, a shared understanding.  
  
“Only if you’re prepared for them to tell you no,” Nate says.  
  
Walt nods slowly, blue eyes wide.

*

  
  
Stafford, Poke and their partners are out. Nate has an emotional parting of ways with Poke backstage, mostly because Poke is sobbing.  
  
“I think you’re gonna go all the way,” Poke says. “You got the spirit and the drive. You’re not like everybody else.”  
  
“I don’t know about that,” Nate says, flushing.  
  
“No, man, I know,” Poke says. “I’ve known a lot of dancers. You’re different. You’re the real fucking deal.”  
  
“Well, thank you,” Nate says, and hugs Poke tightly.  
  
“I’ll be watching and rooting for you, dog,” Poke says.  
  


*

  
  
  
“You have got to be kidding me.”  
  
Tracy is staring at their dance card in disbelief. She holds it out to Nate like it’s diseased.  
  
JIVE, it reads.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Nate swears.  
  
The cameraman arches an accusatory eyebrow.  
  


*

  
  
  
“I can’t do it,” Tracy says.  
  
They’ve been practicing for six hours with barely a bathroom break, and Nate is pretty sure they’re no closer to mastering the jive than they were at 7 o’clock this morning.  
  
“We can do this,” Nate says.  
  
He doesn’t believe it. The lifts are insane, the speed is unreal, and the footwork is bizarre. Tracy, who has no ballroom or swing experience whatsoever, can’t seem to master the basic steps, and Nate’s so tired his vision is starting to blur.  
  
“I love you, Nate, I do,” Tracy says, “but you are full of shit.”  
  
“Let’s try again tomorrow,” Nate says. “Maybe with some sleep…”  
  
Tracy is shaking her head, but she says, “I am totally fine with stopping.”  
  
She goes off to find Carly and Laura, probably to go drink their pain away, and Nate sidesteps Ray and Walt to escape to his room. Once there, he collapses on his unmade bed and vows never to move again.  
  
“You look beat,” he hears, and opens his eyes to see Brad standing in front of him in only a towel, fresh out of the shower.  
  
“I think I am,” Nate says. “Totally beat.”  
  
Brad’s abdominal muscles are really fucking distracting. Nate closes his eyes just to avoid any embarrassing situations, but he can’t stop picturing the long line of Brad’s torso, tiny droplets of water sliding down over his stomach and under his towel.  
  
“That’s not a good attitude to have,” Brad says. “You know, it could be worse.”  
  
Nate cracks one eye open. “How?”  
  
Brad’s mouth turns up at one side. “You could have disco.”  
  
Nate blinks, then laughs. “Oh, wow. You have disco?”  
  
“Fuckin’ A, yes we do,” Brad says. “There is no way to look cool doing disco. Even people who are good at disco look like fools doing it.”  
  
“That is God’s honest truth,” Nate says. “I don’t even understand how that’s a style of dance, to be honest.”  
  
“Right?” Brad says. “Our routine is ridiculous, and there are approximately seventeen lifts involved, and Carly is afraid of heights. It’s awesome.”  
  
He sits down on the edge of Nate’s bed. He is still only wearing a towel. Nate tries to breathe normally.  
  
“That does make me feel a little better.”  
  
Brad snorts. “Glad I could be of service.”  
  
Nate realizes that they are having something resembling a normal conversation, perhaps the first one they’ve ever had, and it freaks him out.  
  
This of course means he has to go and ruin the moment.  
  
“I didn’t know you were a Marine,” Nate blurts out.  
  
The line of Brad’s back goes rigid, and Nate can see the muscles of his shoulders tighten.  
  
“It never came up, did it?” Brad says.  
  
Nate feels like an idiot and an asshole.  
  
“Guess not,” Nate says.  
  
“I wouldn’t have talked about it at all,” Brad says, “but somehow the producers found out and thought it would make for good TV.”  
  
There’s a long pause when Nate has an excellent opportunity to leave it alone, to let it go, but of course he doesn’t, because he’s too curious and fascinated and mean.  
  
“This is going to sound stupid,” Nate says, “but was it awful?”  
  
Nate can hear Brad take in a shaky breath.  
  
“I want to help people,” Brad says, “but I think I can do that without hurting so many people too.”  
  
Nate thinks it’s pretty amazing how Brad just answered his question without answering it at all.  
  


*

  
  
To say that things are not going well with Nate and Tracy’s jive is an understatement akin to likening World War II to a minor tiff between nations. Nate spent all morning trying to master a particular kick he still can’t do right, and Tracy’s been crying for the last half hour as the choreographer tiredly coached them through the steps. Nate wants to flee to his room, dive under the covers and never come out again.  
  
He’s even a little relieved when Doc slams open the door to their practice room and shouts, “Fick, get your ass over here.”  
  
Doc only speaks in commands and occasional sarcastic asides. He’s not super-tall and he’s got a mustache that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but of all the fairly muscular guys in this competition, he is the only one Nate actually fears.  
  
“What’s up?” Nate asks.  
  
“It’s Walt,” Doc says.  
  
Nate’s stomach sinks and spins.  
  
Three practice rooms over, a small crowd is starting to gather. Nate has to push through a bunch of oglers to get to Walt, who’s lying on his back in the middle of the shiny wooden floor. His partner Laura is crouched down next to him, holding his hand and speaking to him in a hushed voice.  
  
“Walt,” Nate says, stooping down so they’re eye level. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I was doing this spin,” Walt says, voice fuzzy and too soft, “and then I fell, and—“  
  
“It’s bad,” Laura says. “Doc thinks it’s his Achilles.”  
  
Nate winces. The Achilles tendon is every dancer’s kryptonite. A strained or snapped Achilles can mean surgery and months of recovery, months you can’t dance or even attempt to stay in shape.  
  
“Did somebody call a doctor?” Nate asks. He feels useless.  
  
Laura nods. “Nate, I don’t want Walt to be hurt. I don’t care about the competition, I just—“  
  
“Shoulda let Ray give me that massage,” Walt mumbles.  
  
“You’re gonna be okay, Walt,” Nate says, and squeezes Walt’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what else to say. Walt’s career could be over, and Nate – Nate is the one who told him to dance even when he had doubts, even when he wanted to stop.  
  
“I’m fine,” Walt says, and Nate knows Walt can see the fear scrawled across his face. “Seriously, Nate, I’ll be fine.”  
  
Nate doesn’t know why Walt is trying to reassure him. He wants to scream.

 

 

*

  
  
The paramedics take Walt to the hospital. That afternoon they’re all expected to dance. Nate’s mind is everywhere at once. He’s trying to keep the steps in his head because he doesn’t want to fuck things up for Tracy, but he honestly doesn’t give a shit about the jive. He keeps seeing Walt’s wide blue-grey eyes.  
  
_Do you think I should talk to somebody?_  
  
“You’re beating yourself up,” Brad says. “Don’t do that.”  
  
Nate turns to see Brad, backlit by the stage lights. The curtain sways gently behind him. He’s dressed all in sparkly white like some kind of giant Teen Angel, and Nate’s glad to see that even Brad isn’t immune to the inevitable fug of disco.  
  
“It’s not that easy,” Nate says. “I should have told him to see a doctor. I should have—“  
  
“How do you know he even would have gone?” Brad asks. “Walt seems pretty stubborn.”  
  
“What do you even know about Walt?” Nate snaps. “Have you ever spoken to him?”  
  
Brad’s light eyes register a fraction of surprise, though the rest of his face doesn’t shift.  
  
“I was helping Walt learn the tango,” Brad says. “The foot movement has similarities to some ballet poses.”  
  
He takes a step forward, and Nate, as if by instinct, steps back.  
  
“I saw him fall, Nate,” Brad says. “There’s nothing anyone could have done.”  
  
Brad’s voice is flat and devoid of expression, but Nate can tell he’s lying. Brad’s torn up inside about this too. He’s just too hard to show it.  
  
“Good luck,” Nate says softly.  
  
The intro music starts, loud and obnoxious, and Nate doesn’t hear if Brad says it back.

*

  
  
Nate dances badly – not even badly by his own standards, just…badly. He misses steps and almost trips and botches a lift, and when it’s over Patterson cocks his head to one side and says, “This one was rough for you two, wasn’t it?”  
  
He holds Tracy’s hand as they walk offstage and says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
She pats his cheek. Her eyes are red and blurry. Nate feels like everything inside of him is being squeezed.  
  
Brad and Carly dance to a chirpy techno song. _I might tear you apart_ , the singer croons over insistent synth beats, _told you from the start, baby, from the start…_  
  
Nate watches them dance and notes the precision of Brad’s movements, the ease of his lifts. How does he do it?  
  
Then Nate remembers that Brad was a Marine. He’s used to going through the motions, feelings be damned. _Marines make do._  
  
Nate waits until the end of the routine to duck out. He’s sprinting to the parking lot outside the studio when he hears someone call his name.  
  
It’s Ray. He’s still in costume, clad in a mesh shirt and satin pants that on any other day Nate would enjoy making fun of him for. His make-up is smeared around his eyes.  
  
“Let me come with you,” is all he says.

*

  
  
Ray is silent the whole way to the hospital, which freaks Nate out. The entire time Nate’s known Ray, he’s never known him to be quiet for more than ten seconds at a time.  
  
“Are you okay?” Nate asks, finally.  
  
“Fuck, who cares if I’m okay,” Ray says. “I just want Walt to be okay.”  
  
Ray looks pale. He twists his hands in his lap. Nate leaves him alone.  
  
When they arrive the nurse tells them Walt can see visitors, but only one at a time. Nate lets Ray go first. He sits in the waiting room and fields calls from Doc and Rudy.  
  
Doc says, “Hasser is a tough guy. He’ll be able to deal with this bullshit.”  
  
“I think so,” Nate says, though he is hardly assured of this.  
  
“Walt has a strong warrior spirit,” Rudy says. “He is peaceful, but unflinching.”  
  
“Mmm-hmm,” Nate says.  
  
“How are you holding up, my brother?” Rudy asks.  
  
Nate doesn’t know what to say. Everything sucks. He feels alternatively homicidal and numb.  
  
“I’m all right,” he says.  
  
“Even leaders are allowed their moments of vulnerability, Nate,” Rudy says. “Remember that.”  
  
_When did I become a leader?_ Nate wonders.  
  
Ray emerges. His voice sounds choked when he says, “Dude, he can see you now.”  
  
Walt doesn’t look as bad as he could. In fact, aside from having his leg up in a sling, he seems almost normal.  
  
“Sorry if I ruined your night,” he says.  
  
“Walt—“ Nate starts to say, but the words get stuck in his throat.  
  
Walt takes his hand and laces their fingers together as if they’re two kids on the buddy system, walking each other to school.  
  
“I’m gonna have surgery,” Walt says. “I’m nineteen, so they think I’ll heal fine.”  
  
_Motherfucker_ , Nate thinks. Sometimes he hates being right.  
  
“You know this competition doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things,” Nate says. “Not if it fucks up your career.”  
  
“You said it yourself, Nate,” Walt says. “I’ll be okay. The competition may be over for me, but it’s not the end of my life.”  
  
Nate thinks: _Not dancing is not living_. He doesn’t say it.  
  
“I just wanted to dance like you and Brad,” Walt says. “It sounds cheesy, but…you’re both amazing. You don’t even realize how good you are, Nate.”  
  
“Oh come on, stop, “Nate says, flushing. “You don’t have to—“  
  
“It’s gonna be you two at the end,” Walt says. “I know it.”  
  
Everybody keeps saying that, but Nate danced the worst performance of his life tonight. If he’s lucky, his boy-next-door looks will buy him another week. The truth is, the competition doesn’t matter to him anymore, all this useless pageantry.  
  
“You better watch the next two weeks,” Nate says. “I need you to give me pointers if I’m still around.”  
  
Walt nods, his mouth set in a thin line. “Count on it.”  
  
“Walt.”  
  
Nate glances up to see Brad standing in the doorway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing the same Air Supply t-shirt he wore the day they met, but he looks different somehow. More normal. More human.  
  
“Snuck past the militia out there,” Brad says. “You’d think you were somebody important, Hasser.”  
  
“Dude, you didn’t have to come,” Walt says, but he looks ecstatic, like a kid who’s been given too many presents and doesn’t know which to open first.  
  
“Yeah, I did,” Brad says, sidles over and settles down in a chair opposite Nate. He places one hand on Walt’s arm. “We never finished your tango lesson.”  
  
Walt groans, rolling his eyes, but the groan becomes laughter, the first Nate’s heard from him since he fell.  
  
“I’ll tell you what you do next time,” Brad says. “You _don’t fall._ ”

*

  
  
Walt’s cousin Tammy, who lives in San Diego, is a busty blonde with a drawl even more pronounced than Walt’s. She arrives a few minutes after Brad does and announces that Walt’s entire extended family just got on a plane. Walt starts ranting about how that’s ridiculous and unnecessary, and Nate and Brad take this as a cue to leave. Walt gives them an excited wave on their way out, and Brad salutes him.  
  
They go to collect Ray, who’s still hanging out in the waiting room, looking like somebody just murdered his puppy.  
  
“Ray, don’t be a pussy,” Brad says, tugging on his arm and lifting him easily to his feet. “ _You_ didn’t damage a tendon, did you?”  
  
Ray seems to snap to, yanked back to reality by Brad’s teasing.  
  
“Fuck you, Icebitch,” he retorts. “I just need some sleep, okay? Not all of us are fucking ex-Devil Dogs who can function on five minutes of shut-eye a night.”  
  
Brad raises an eyebrow and says, “Let’s go get you some beauty rest then, princess.”

*

  
  
In the car on the way back to the house, Nate checks his phone and finds he has a message from his mom. She sounds freaked, and Nate knows before she even starts talking that she watched the show tonight and saw his disastrous performance.  
  
“…I just don’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart,” she says. “I know it’s easy with the way they’re working you to death, but listen to your body, okay? Don’t – don’t do things because you think you have to, because you could have a future in this, and—“  
  
There’s some static, like she covered the phone, and then she says, “I have to go, baby. You take care. Your father sends his love.”  
  
The call ends. Nate swallows around the lump in his throat. He pockets his phone, but all he can hear, over and over, is _You could have a future in this. You could—_  
  
Neither of his parents have _ever_ said that.

*

  
  
When they get back, Nate follows Ray to his room to make sure he’s really okay. Ray stops him dead with one hand planted in the center of his chest and says, “You don’t need to go all Oprah on me, dude. I’m not going to cry or anything. Unless we’re gonna cuddle, you need to go the fuck to bed.”  
  
Nate figures he’s done what he can. He spreads out on a mat and does some stretches in the empty living room, hearing only the sounds of his own creaking limbs as he twists, and thinks about how this competition is more than half over. It feels like it just began. It feels like they’ve been doing this forever. Exhaustion sinks into Nate’s bones, weighing him down. He finally allows himself to feel tired.  
  
He drags himself to his room and finds Brad there and still awake, soft music emanating from his iPod speakers. He’s doing his own stretches on the floor, his body one long curve.  
  
“What is—“ Nate starts to say, but Brad’s body jerks and he lunges for the remote, flicking off the speakers.  
  
“Nothing,” Brad mutters, and Nate thinks, _oh, it’s like this now._  
  
Nate could have sworn he heard strains of _Swan Lake._

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
You know that if you’re in the bottom five, you have to dance in order to not be eliminated.  
  
FICK  
Um, yes. I am aware of the rules of the competition.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
If you end up in the bottom five—  
  
FICK  
Then I’ll do my best to show everyone why I shouldn’t be there.  
  
*

  
  
“If Nate has to dance for his life, he’s going to do a heartfelt routine to Evanescence,” Ray announces at lunch the next day over a plate of ravioli. “It’ll be very tasteful.”  
  
“What are you going to dance to, Nate?” Rudy asks.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Nate says.  
  
“I understand,” Rudy says. “You don’t know if you’ll have to dance. You don’t want to alter your karma by assuming the worst.”  
  
“No, I just don’t want to talk about it,” Nate says.  
  
He pretty much always assumes the worst, because that helps him prepare for it. Also, he’s almost certain he’ll have to solo; Ferrando called their performance yesterday “uninspired,” and Sixta wondered aloud if perhaps Nate’s shirt, which had become untucked at some point during the number, had adversely affected his ability to focus.  
  
“Fair point, brother,” Rudy says. “Not everything must be discussed with the group.”  
  
“Walt totally had the right idea,” Ray says. “Get yourself fucked up so you make it impossible for them to kick you out for sucking.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, Ray,” Brad says from the far corner of the table.  
  
It’s the only thing he’s said all day, but one thing is certain about Brad Colbert: his words, though few, are always well-chosen.

*

  
  
Nate does, in fact, know what song he’s dancing to, and like all of them, he choreographed a solo just for situations like this one. When the judges tell him he’s in the bottom five – just as he expected – he has little trouble accessing the emotion he needs to do it.  
  
He’ll dance for his life, sure. He’s been doing it for much longer than he’s been in this competition.  
  
He plants himself center stage and lets the music spill over him, hears _I remember when, I remember when I lost my mind_ and _there was something so pleasant about that space_ and loses himself in it, the movement of his hands and feet and limbs together, torso turning and gravity shifting, air beneath him and above him, nothing as important as the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm.  
  
_Ever since I was little it looked like fun_ , he hears, _and it’s no coincidence I’ve come._  
  
Nate does a tight pirouette that ends with his feet firmly on the ground.  
  
_And I can die when I’m done._  
  
When the music stops, it takes him a moment to come down. He realizes the judges are all staring at him in stunned silence.  
  
“Holy God, Nathaniel Fick,” Ferrando says. “Where did that come from?”  
  
Nate fiddles self-consciously with the hem of his tank top. He doesn’t know what to say, whether he should gloat or defend himself.  
  
“That, right there,” Patterson says, “is why you are in this competition. You just showed everyone what contemporary dance is.”  
  
Nate swallows. “Th-thank you?”  
  
“Get off this stage, young man, before Sixta finds something to say about your pants,” Ferrando says, and Nate scurries off as Sixta splutters.  
  
Backstage Nate nearly runs into Brad, who jumps back as if he’s been shocked with a cattle prod.  
  
“Sorry,” Nate says, though he’s not really. He’s so wound up he wants to fight or fuck something. He’s not quite sure which.  
  
“Nate, that was—“ Brad starts to say, and then stops as if at a loss for words.  
  
“Hopefully it’ll keep me here for another week,” Nate says.  
  
“If it doesn’t, then they’re the ones who are crazy,” Brad says.  
  
He drops his eyes, and for a moment he looks almost shy.  
  
Nate’s in such a fog, he’s already in the dressing room when he realizes what Brad meant.

*

  
  
Doc and his partner go home, a fate that doesn’t seem to surprise either of them. When they announce that Walt’s injury will prevent him from competing, the audience goes hushed for a moment, then comes alive with applause. _WE LOVE YOU, WALT!_ a group of teenage girls shriek. Ferrando tries to quiet them down with little success. Nate feels a smile push up the corners of his mouth, and he hopes to God that in the hospital Walt’s watching.  
  
They draw out the suspense for longer than necessary, which they do every week, but – Nate’s ashamed to say – he’s never noticed, since it’s never affected him directly.  
  
“The final dancer whose journey ends tonight is…” Ferrando rasps, “…Tracy.”  
  
Nate feels those two syllables like a punch in the gut. Tracy throws her arms around Nate’s neck and kisses him on the cheek. Nate can feel her tears against his face. He doesn’t want to let her go.  
  
“I’m sorry, Trace,” he whispers. “I’m sorry you had to take the bullet.”  
  
“Hey, don’t worry about it, sweetie,” Tracy says with a sad smile. “That bullet wasn’t meant for you.”

*

  
  
Brad’s not in their room when Nate returns. Nate finds it hard to care – he’s so emotionally and physically spent that he lies down on his bed and falls asleep immediately, without even taking off his clothes.  
  
He dreams about Brad. They’re dancing together, but they can’t get the steps right. Brad keeps pulling back when he’s supposed to be moving forward, and Nate’s rhythm is fucked. Nate doesn’t even know what song they’re dancing to, or what steps they’re supposed to be doing.  
  
But then Brad grabs his shoulders and holds him still and looks into his eyes and says, _Nate.  
  
Nate, stop fighting me._  
  
Nate wakes up to find Brad kneeling at the foot of his bed, slipping Nate’s shoes off his feet. Brad’s hand lingers on the arch of his foot, tickling, and Nate sucks in a breath.  
  
Brad must know Nate is awake, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply pulls off Nate’s other shoe and lets it drop to the floor with a thump, then rises and strides across the room to his own bed. He slides under the sheets silently. Nate holds his breath, waiting, but nothing comes.  
  
He takes much longer to fall asleep this time, straining in the darkness for some sound, wishing Brad hadn’t moved away so quickly, that he’d kept touching Nate for just a little bit longer.

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Walt Hasser left the competition because of injury, and your partner got eliminated last week as well. That’s a lot of change to happen in one week.  
  
FICK  
I’m really sorry about Walt and Tracy. They are both amazing dancers.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Do you feel like these changes might have affected your performance last week?  
  
FICK  
I don’t know, probably. But I’m glad I was given another chance, and I’m excited to dance with Laura.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Laura has never been in the bottom five. Does that intimidate you?  
  
FICK  
(laughs)  
Are you kidding? I’m intimidated by the fact that Laura can kick my ass. Literally.  
  
*

  
  
The next day they pick their Week 4 styles. Nate nearly gets down on his knees and thanks his lucky stars when he and Laura draw jazz. Finally, something he can work with! He was beginning to think he was destined to spend the rest of the competition fighting his way through esoteric ballroom styles or, like, _crunk_.  
  
No one can replace Tracy, but he and Laura are well-matched. She’s a willowy, dark-haired powerhouse with skin the color of burnt sugar, and her background is in contemporary and ballet, just like Walt’s. Her carriage is incredible, and she dances with the sort of abandon Nate’s always envied. Her movement has no filters.  
  
Their choreographer is a man known simply as “Meesh.” He’s a bit of a wild card, known for his quirky personality and mannerisms – everyone says he’s a total stoner, too. But whatever he’s doing on and off the clock, it produces amazingly creative results. Nate watches the dance evolve out of the sensual, rootsy music and gets truly excited for the first time in the competition.  
  
“A lot of dudes would love to be in your place,” Meesh tells him. “I know my shit, okay? It is the best shit. It will make you fly.”  
  
Nate and Laura exchange significant looks, but for once, Nate’s not alarmed. He is ready to take off.

*

  
  
Nate’s usually decent at not getting turned on during performances – it helps that he almost always partners with girls – but this week, the song gets the better of him.  
  
If he’s being honest with himself, it’s the combo of the song, the dance, his partner, and five weeks of perpetual sexual frustration, all rolled up into one tight package. Right now that package is smacking him over the head.  
  
_I was only just a friend to you_ , purrs the singer. _All I wanted to do was get to know you better. Now I wanna give my heart to you. Tell me do you feel like I do?  
  
When we’re together I come alive with your touch…too much of you is what I need…_  
  
When he pulls Laura in close for a dip, she arches an eyebrow at him. He blushes. He feels like a horny teenage boy. He knows his pants are tight and the cameras pick up fucking everything.  
  
He spins her out, relief washing over him as he realizes they are dancing apart for the remainder of the piece. But when he turns toward the audience his eye catches on Brad. He’s standing rigid, shoulders tight, his lips parted.  
  
Nate isn’t close enough to read his eyes, but he has an idea of what they might be saying.  
  
He’s not proud of the way he shivers, but this is a dance about desire. He’s still grateful the numbers are only two minutes long.  
  
A moment later they’re standing in front of the judges, and Brad’s disappeared.  
  
Nate exhales.  
  
“Wow, did it just get hot in here?” Ferrando jokes, and the audience titters.  
  
“I think we need to credit Meesh for translating that heat to the stage,” Patterson says. He’s staring at Nate with a ferocity that makes Nate feel dizzy. “That was brilliant choreography, and you two make an exceptional pair.”  
  
“Laura’s wonderful,” Nate blurts out. “She makes me look better for sure.”  
  
Laura squeezes his hand.  
  
Patterson’s mouth turns up at one corner.  
  
“I’m not sure you need her help, Nate,” he says. “Ever since you did that solo last week, you’ve become a different dancer. I don’t know what you’ve changed, but keep doing it.”  
  
Nate’s practically floating as they walk offstage together, but as soon as they’re out of sight of the cameras, Laura turns and smacks him on the ass.  
  
“What—“  
  
“Don’t think I didn’t enjoy it,” she says, mouth curving into a saucy smile, “but you need to get that taken care of, and I don’t think I’m the one you want taking care of it.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re—“  
  
“Don’t play coy with me, Fick,” Laura says. “You had eyes for only one person in that theater, and it wasn’t me.”  
  


*

  
  
Nate misses seeing Brad’s waltz while he’s changing, though he hears through the instant grapevine that it was as impeccable as ever, if mostly uninteresting.  
  
Since there are only eight of them left, this week they all get to do solos. He watches as Brad walks onto the stage in darkness. The spotlight illuminates his towering, lean frame with a dramatic flash.  
  
There is a hardness about Brad, always – not a stiffness but a hardness, a closed off quality that is both intimidating and enticing. But the second the music begins – _Swan Lake_ , it is _Swan Lake_ , Nate would know that anywhere – that hardness drops away. He is still poised and perfect, and his movements are those of a dancer who is both highly trained and highly skilled. But there is an ease in Brad dancing ballet that Nate has never seen before.  
  
It’s so strange that he’s known Brad for more than a month now and yet he’s never seen him dance in his own style. They don’t choreograph ballet routines for this show, the assumption being that it’s the one type of dance that can’t be taught in three days. This means every style is new to Brad. He’s never been allowed a comfort zone.  
  
Brad leaps into the air and seems to stay there, frozen in space, before descending, and Nate thinks: _Oh._  
  
He’s known Brad for more than a month, seen him dance many times and slept in the bed across from his, and yet he doesn’t know him at all.  
  
This, here, is Brad: unfiltered, untamed, uninhibited. This is every reason he was chosen for this show.  
  
This is the Brad Nate wants to know.

*

  
  
He doesn’t see Brad until late that evening when he returns to their room. Nate has already turned out the lights and is lying in the darkness, but sleep eludes him.  
  
Brad is as quiet as a spy as he undresses, obviously assuming Nate’s asleep. Nate gets some satisfaction from leaning over and flicking on the light, though he feels slightly less smug when he sees Brad sitting on the edge of his bed in only his boxers, crouched over as if he’s ill.  
  
“Are you okay?” Nate asks.  
  
Brad doesn’t look up, just grunts.  
  
“Use your words, Colbert,” Nate snaps.  
  
“Fuck you, Fick,” Brad says. The coldness in his voice makes Nate itch. “I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
Nate could let it go, but he’s so tired of letting it go, of allowing Brad to retreat.  
  
_Stop fighting me, Brad_ , he thinks, and for a moment he forgets that was only a dream.  
  
“You know, it’s not fair,” Nate says. “You’re so good at everything, but you never share your secrets. You just do your thing and wait for everyone else to fuck up.”  
  
Brad uncurls himself. He has dark circles under his eyes.  
  
“You don’t know shit about me,” Brad says. “I wish you would stop pretending you do.”  
  
“What you don’t seem to understand, Brad, is that I _want_ to know things about you. I want to know why you left the military – not the vague b.s. you told the cameras, but the real reason. I want to know why you joined up in the first place. I want to know why you chose ballet. I want to know why you dance.” He takes in a deep breath and exhales. “But mostly I want to know how you became the best dancer I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Brad holds his gaze for a long time. It’s like having a staring contest with a wall. Nate knows Brad will always win.  
  
“You think I’m the best dancer you’ve ever seen?” Brad says.  
  
Nate can’t repress his sigh.  
  
“Goddammit,” he mutters. “That was so not the point of that monologue.”  
  
“I don’t know what the point was, then,” Brad jokes, “because that’s all I heard.”  
  
Nate collapses into his pillows and closes his eyes. “Well, you seem fine now. Nevermind.”  
  
“Nate…”  
  
Brad’s voice is soft, coaxing. Nate cracks open his eyes and shoots him daggers through slitted eyelids.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Brad says. “It’s been a hard day, all right? I’m tired.”  
  
“I’m tired too,” Nate says.  
  
“I know,” Brad says. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. I just – you know how sometimes you feel like you’re dancing the dance and sometimes it feels like the dance is dancing you?”  
  
God, does Nate know. Some days he gets up and stretches and falls into a dance routine like a living puppet with his emotions pulling the strings. It’s the most liberating and most terrifying feeling in the world.  
  
“Yeah,” Nate murmurs.  
  
It’s all he needs to say. Brad’s eyes crinkle with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his mouth.

*

  
  
“You know, it’s not like we didn’t know it was going to be Brad and Nate from fucking day one, but it would be nice if people would at least pretend we have a fighting chance,” Ray complains at breakfast the next morning.  
  
“You can’t fight fate, my brother,” Rudy says, dumping some green powder into the blender. He’s making some sort of frightening shake.  
  
“This is still bullshit,” Ray insists. “I’m a good fucking dancer. Just because I’m not a…Viking Dance God or America’s Most Adorable Dancer That Everybody Wants to Fuck, I should still be recognized for my efforts.”  
  
“What are you going on about, Ray?” Brad asks around a mouthful of Cheerios. “I wasn’t paying attention.”  
  
“If I could choose who to lose to, I would certainly choose these two gentlemen,” Rudy says, flipping the switch and turning his concoction into a milky green liquid.  
  
“At least when you lose you’ll have more time to romance Walt,” Nate supplies helpfully.  
  
Ray narrows his eyes at Nate.  
  
“He likes yellow roses,” Brad puts in. “They remind him of summer.”  
  
“I hate that you guys like each other now,” Ray says. “I’m getting double-teamed, and I am not into that kinky shit.”  
  
“Walt likes kinky shit,” Brad says.  
  
Ray’s eyes widen. He pauses a second too long before punching Brad in the shoulder, just long enough to send them all into hysterics.

*

  
  
Despite Ray’s assertions that it’s the obvious result, Nate is still surprised when they announce he, Brad, Carly and Laura as the Top 4. He never thought he’d get this far, and he’s not entirely sure he thinks he deserves it.  
  
“Don’t fuck this up for me, Fick,” Laura says, nudging Nate with her shoulder and winking in Brad’s general direction. Brad is chatting with Carly, who’s bouncing excitedly. It all feels surreal, some kind of crazy desert hallucination.  
  
“I need to go,” Nate says, suddenly, and escapes the moment the cameras stop rolling, evading Laura’s concerned looks.  
  
The house is so quiet without Rudy and Ray there; he and Brad are now its only residents, as the girls are housed next door. He guesses he and Brad can have their own rooms now. Hell, they can have two. But Nate has no desire to move. He likes having Brad close, even when all they do is sleep in separate beds.  
  
He settles into an armchair in a corner of the living room with a mug of tea, puts some Etta James on the stereo and calls Walt.  
  
Walt answers after a couple rings with, “What is up, Top 4?”  
  
“Please don’t remind me,” Nate says without thinking.  
  
“Oh, yeah, I’m so sorry you’re going to be in the finale,” Walt drawls. “That sucks for you, Fick.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“  
  
“Relax, dude,” Walt says. “I’m just joshing you. Don’t have a fucking guilt attack. I know you.”  
  
Nate takes in a deep breath.  
  
“How’s the ankle?” Nate asks.  
  
“Well, it would be lots better if it didn’t hurt like hell, but they scheduled the surgery for tomorrow, so I’ll be all right,” Walt says.  
  
“That’s one step closer to dancing again,” Nate says.  
  
“Sure is,” Walt says. “Plus everybody feels sorry for me and keeps bringing me shit, which is awesome. Did you know Ray has now given me twelve DVDs?”  
  
“Are they all porn?” Nate asks.  
  
“Only some of them,” Walt says. “Only the best ones.”  
  
Nate laughs. “Sounds like you’re all set.”  
  
“How are _you_?” Walt says. “Must be getting awfully lonely in that house.”  
  
Nate ignores the sly implications of Walt’s words.  
  
“I’m stressed, but it’ll be okay. It’s almost over.”  
  
“I don’t know, from what Laura tells me, it sounds like this is just the beginning for you,” Walt says. “Plus I’ve been watching, and the judges are all up on your jock. Whatever happens, you’ve got a contract with a company for sure.”  
  
Nate can’t imagine his future, can’t visualize anything beyond this next week. Dartmouth seems like it was years ago, not just a few months back. Baltimore feels like a foreign country. Everything about his former life seems fictional, someone else’s backstory.  
  
“Don’t say you can’t see it, Nate,” Walt says. “This is who you are. This is who you’re going to be.”  
  
Nate bites his lip.  
  
_You better feel that boogie beat and get the lead out of your feet_ , Etta James sings. _Roll with me Henry, you better roll it while the rollin' is on._  
  
“This competition doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things,” Walt says softly. “Somebody really smart told me that.”

*

  
  
Nate knew things were going far too well, because the next day is brutal. He and Laura pick hip-hop as their final dance style, which was Nate’s second biggest nightmare scenario (crump would probably have been worse).  
  
This alone would be bad enough, except then Ferrando drops the final bomb.  
  
“We’re going to switch it up this week,” he tells them. “You’re not only going to dance with your regular partners, you’re going to dance with each other’s partners. This means that Carly and Laura will dance together, and Brad and Nate, you’ll dance together too.”  
  
Nate feels himself begin to sweat. He knows Brad’s eyes are on him, but he’s looking everywhere else.  
  
How is he supposed to dance with Brad? Every time he gets close enough to touch him, he loses his mind.  
  
“Sir, wouldn’t it make sense for me to dance with Laura and Nate to dance with Carly?” Brad says. His voice is even, but his eyes register alarm.  
  
Ferrando shakes his head.  
  
“No, we want to really shake things up. We’ve had no same-sex partnering on the season thusfar, and we think this will showcase different elements.”  
  
It’s going to showcase something for sure. Nate lifts his eyes to the ceiling and sends a silent prayer to whoever’s listening that they get some style where they don’t have to touch hardly at all, like maybe…Bollywood.  
  
“Nate and Brad, you’ve got contemporary,” Ferrando says, handing them the card. “Should be a good style for both of you. Solid ground.”  
  
Nate doesn’t even hear what style Carly and Laura will be doing. He’s too busy trying to melt into the floor using only the power of his mind.

*

  
  
Nate learns that because the judges don’t actually judge the finale – the results are decided entirely by popular vote this late in the competition – they will each be choreographing a routine for it.  
  
This means Ferrando will be guiding Nate and Laura’s hip-hop piece, Sixta will be assisting Brad and Carly with jazz, and Patterson will be choreographing both Brad and Nate and Laura and Carly’s contemporary routines.  
  
PATTERSON WILL BE CHOREOGRAPHING BRAD AND NATE’S CONTEMPORARY ROUTINE.  
  
If Nate didn’t want to die before, he does now.  
  
He’s so flustered when a member of the crew shoves a camera in his face and asks him what he thinks of Brad Colbert, he says, “Brad is an incredible dancer. He makes everything look easy. Nothing is hard for him.”  
  
“Are you looking forward to dancing with him in the finale?” the crew member asks.  
  
“Sure,” Nate says, with a nervous laugh. “I just hope I can keep up.”

*

  
  
They begin that morning with their hip-hop routine, and Nate’s almost relieved to spend four hours looking like an idiot just because he gets to do it with Laura and not Brad.  
  
“Tighter movements, Nate,” Ferrando barks. “I know contemporary is all about flow and all that bullshit, but you need to pull it together for hip-hop. Don’t think that just because you can see this in a Dr. Dre video that means it’s easy.”  
  
_A Dr. Dre video_? Nate wonders when the last time was that Ferrando watched MTV. Laura rolls her eyes behind his back.  
  
Nate’s eating a bagel with cream cheese for lunch – he needs the carbs, okay, it’s going to be a long day – when Brad settles in a chair next to him and says, “This sucks, right?”  
  
“You’ve got jazz,” Nate says around a mouthful of bagel. “You’re lucky.”  
  
“We’ve got _Sixta_ ,” Brad says. “The guy’s a complete incompetent.”  
  
He pauses. He seems distracted by watching Nate eat.  
  
“And you know,” he says slowly, “that’s not what I was talking about.”  
  
The back of Nate’s neck heats. He concentrates on his bagel.  
  
“I promise this time when we dance I won’t be drunk,” Nate says.  
  
He can feel Brad shift beside him. When he looks up, to his surprise, Brad looks the tiniest bit flushed.  
  
“I…assumed,” Brad says.  
  
His voice sounds hoarse, not unlike when Nate corrected his posture, touching him without meaning to.  
  
“We’ll get through this,” Nate says.  
  
Nate doesn’t know when he started to be able to read Brad, but when their gazes lock, all he can see is, _Don’t make promises you can’t keep._

*

  
  
He may have soft, understanding brown eyes, but Patterson is all business the second he steps into the studio.  
  
“I’m excited to work with you both,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I want complete attention at all times, all right? I know you’ve had a long five weeks, but this is the time to pull out all the stops. Neither of you have this in the bag, no matter what Ferrando might tell you.”  
  
Brad scuffs his foot against the varnished floor, and Nate averts his eyes so as not to have to meet his own gaze in the mirrored wall.  
  
“This piece is about wanting something that hurts you,” Patterson says. “It’s about needing something that hurts you. That thing could be a person. It could be a place. It could be a thing.”  
  
He hands them each a CD, labeled with the song title scrawled in black Sharpie.  
  
“It could be dance,” he says.

*

  
  
“Ow,” Nate says.  
  
“This is not waltzing at your high school prom, Colbert,” Patterson says. “Stop crushing Fick’s feet.”  
  
Brad visibly deflates. Patterson never shouts, but his calm criticism is almost more devastating at normal volume.  
  
“And you, Nate,” Patterson says. “I don’t know what you’re doing with your hands, but you need to stop it. Brad is not made of glass. When you grab him, _grab_ him.”  
  
Nate can remember vividly what happened the last time he grabbed Brad with intent. It did not end well.  
  
“Seriously, Nate,” Brad says softly. “You’re not going to hurt me.”  
  
_I’m not worried about hurting you_ , Nate thinks.  
  
“You know what, that’s a wrap for the day,” Patterson says. “I don’t know what’s turned the two of you into a couple of shy teenagers, but I suggest you spend the evening getting your shit together. Otherwise this is going to be a very painful few days for all of us.”  
  
He leaves without another word, shutting the studio door behind him.  
  
“Shit,” Nate says.  
  
“In a word, yes,” Brad says.  
  
Brad runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. He’s sweating, and there’s a patch of wet in the center of his undershirt. Nate closes his eyes against the desire to move forward and lick.  
  
“I have an idea,” Brad says.  
  
“What?” Nate says.  
  
Brad holds out his hand.  
  
Without thinking, Nate takes it. Brad’s palm is warm and slightly damp.  
  
“Just trust me,” he says.

*

  
  
Brad’s secret plan apparently involves an impromptu excursion to a club in Hollywood.  
  
“Oh God, just tell me this isn’t going to end like _Center Stage_ ,” Nate says. “We’re not going to let loose with some spontaneous salsa, are we? Are there going to be creative dance numbers staged to Michael Jackson?”  
  
Brad’s mouth quirks. “You do realize you just admitted to having seen _Center Stage_ , right?”  
  
“Whatever,” Nate says. “You’re a ballet dancer, don’t even pretend like you haven’t watched it.”  
  
Brad doesn’t say anything, but his lips form a quiet smile.  
  
“Brad, what’s up?” a burly, heavily tattooed dude says at the door. “Haven’t seen you around much lately, man.”  
  
“Been busy,” Brad says. “You know how it is.”  
  
“Sure do, dude,” he says, and slaps Brad on the back. “Glad to see you. Come on in. You know there’s no cover for you.”  
  
Brad thumbs in the direction of Nate. “He’s with me.”  
  
The bouncer gives Nate a tight once-over. Nate can only imagine what he sees. Nate only half-changed out of his dance clothes – he’s wearing jeans, an undershirt and a well-fitting plaid shirt, and he knows he looks like he’s about 15.  
  
“Okay then,” the bouncer says with a raised eyebrow, and lets them behind the velvet rope.  
  
The club is already crowded and noisy, and Brad has to pull him close to tell him, “There will be no MJ tonight. I say that with no disrespect to the King of Pop.”  
  
“You gonna tell me what the hell we’re doing here?” Nate asks.  
  
Brad shakes his head, and gestures to the bartender for drinks. Nate’s got a cold beer sweating in his hand before he has a chance to respond.  
  
Nate doesn’t have to wait long, because a moment later there’s the wail of shrieking feedback, and a bunch of shaggy guys launch into a loud, fast-paced song with a driving drum beat. The crowd swells and strains forward, and he gets shoved so hard that Brad has to clamp his hand around Nate’s arm to keep him from going flying.  
  
The rest of the set is a blur of sweat and sound, the decibel level climbing, the singer screaming incoherently into the mike and thrashing around on stage like he’s possessed. The crowd feeds on every word, bouncing and pushing and shouting, and Brad is right there with them, throwing himself into every guitar riff and yell and war cry.  
  
As a guy who most often listens to music in the comfort of his own living room, often in the form of soft jazz or soul or recorded classic rock, Nate feels like a complete fish out of water. But he also is intensely aware of his presence in the crowd, of how he is part of this just by being here. For a few intense, precious moments, Nate doesn’t think about anything but the way his body moves, the way the crowd moves his body.  
  
_You know how sometimes you dance the dance_ , he can hear Brad say, _and sometimes the dance dances you?_  
  
There are moments when Nate gets shoved so hard he doesn’t know if he can make it to the end of the show, but when the lead singer bellows “Fuck you, L.A., we love you! We’re done with you!” his chest tightens like he’s being forced to say goodbye to an old friend.  
  
Brad is grinning so wide Nate can see all his teeth. He’s sweaty and red in the face, and his eyes are so blue Nate thinks he can map the Pacific in them.  
  
“Are you okay?” is the first thing Brad says as the crowd propels them toward the exit.  
  
Fresh air, even laced with exhaust, feels like heaven on Nate’s face. He inhales deeply. He still feels like he’s drowning.  
  
Brad tugs him into the alley, out of the lane of human traffic.  
  
“Nate,” he repeats. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Nate says. He wishes he didn’t sound breathless.  
  
“They’re amazing, right?” Brad shakes sweat out of his hair. “God, they were even better than the last time I saw them.”  
  
“They were…” Nate’s head is still spinning. “You go to shows like this a lot?”  
  
“Fuck yes,” Brad breathes. “As much as I can. Here I don’t have to worry about any of the shit I do when I’m dancing ballet – I can just jump around and look like an idiot and not care. Nobody’s watching.”  
  
Brad is so gorgeous like this – eyes bright with excitement, lips lifted in a rare genuine smile.  
  
“You keep surprising me,” Nate says. “A Marine ballet dancer who loves punk? It’d be impossible to make you up.”  
  
Brad’s eyes dim slightly.  
  
“Ex-Marine,” he says.  
  
“I didn’t mean—“  
  
“I know what you didn’t mean,” Brad says. “It’s just – a person can’t have dimensions? That’s why I left the military, Nate. They don’t want you to have a personality. They want you to be a robot, a semi-skilled operator of heavy machinery. They don’t want you to care about anything but the mission, even if you don’t know what that mission is.”  
  
Nate’s been waiting for so long for Brad to open up, to tell him this. But now that he’s talking, Nate wishes he wouldn’t. Not if it’s going to make him look like that, like somebody’s just broken him in half.  
  
“Being an ex-Marine, that’s why I need music like this,” Brad says. “Because all of it makes me so fucking furious.”  
  
Nate can feel Brad’s hand on his arm, his fingers pressing into his skin. He can hear the muted whir of the crowd milling around outside, can smell their cigarette smoke.  
  
“Why did you become a Marine, then?” Nate asks. “If it was so horrible, if you hated it so much—”  
  
“Because nobody understands ballet,” Brad spits. “Becoming a Marine meant I had a purpose I could talk about at fucking family barbeques.”  
  
“Ballet is a purpose,” Nate says. “Dance is—“  
  
“That’s why you’re at Dartmouth, right?” Brad asks. “Because it’s so fucking easy to convince people being a dancer is a valid life choice, a real career?”  
  
Nate bites his lip and looks away.  
  
“You’re the real mystery to me,” Brad says. “How could you ever think you could be anything else?”  
  
Nate looks up. Brad’s face is a swirl of anger and confusion.  
  
“I’m not a great dancer,” Nate says. “Only the great dancers make it.”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Brad says. “Dancing comes so easy to you – you get up there on stage and you put everything out there, all of what you’re feeling. You don’t hide anything. How do you do that? Every time I watch you dance I feel it—” Brad presses his palm to the center of Nate’s chest, “—right here.”  
  
Nate’s heart is beating so fast he thinks he might stroke out.  
  
“Easy?” Nate gasps. “You think it’s easy?”  
  
“You make it _look_ easy,” Brad says. “The way you connect to music, the way you connect to the audience – why do you think you’re still in this competition, Nate? It’s not your fucking jive, and it’s not your pretty face either.”  
  
Nate refuses to cry in front of Brad, but that doesn’t stop his throat from feeling swollen and tight.  
  
“ _You_ make everything look easy,” Nate says. “You pick up each new style like it’s nothing. Everyone says—“  
  
“The steps are just the steps,” Brad cuts him off. “Any monkey can be trained. Not everybody can feel the music the way you do.”  
  
Nate steps back and hits the wall. He’s trapped, but if there’s somewhere else he’s meant to be right now, he doesn’t know where that is.  
  
“They called me the Iceman when I was dancing with the Los Angeles Ballet, Nate,” Brad says, voice bitter. “It wasn’t a compliment.”  
  
“I can’t believe that,” Nate whispers.  
  
Brad is so close. Nate can feel his exhaled breath when he says, “It’s true.”  
  
The words hang in the air between them. Nate’s eyelids flutter closed, and Brad’s hand tightens on Nate’s arm.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Brad murmurs. “You are so beautiful it doesn’t even make sense.”  
  
_He doesn’t like me that way_ , Nate thinks. _He doesn’t like me—_  
  
Brad’s lips press to his, soft and tentative. His kiss is so unlike Brad, so gentle, as if he’s ready to stage a retreat at any moment.  
  
_We can’t do this_ , Nate thinks. _Not now. Not like this. Not when we’re still competing—_  
  
He doesn’t want to push Brad away.  
  
He does.  
  
“We can’t do this,” Nate says, eyes fluttering open, and the expression on Brad’s face makes him want to take it all back.  
  
Brad doesn’t say anything. He looks as if he’s working it all over in his mind. He pulls back, his hand dropping from Nate’s arm.  
  
“You’re right,” he says softly.  
  
Brad’s face shutters. Nate can see him closing windows and slamming doors.

 

 

*

  
  
After a torturously painful and silent ride home, Nate decides it’s time to find somewhere else to sleep for the night. While Brad’s in the shower, he slips into a pair of loose sleep pants and a _Dance America_ t-shirt, takes his Degas book and goes to Walt’s old room that Walt shared (briefly) with Gunny.  
  
The room has no remnants of Walt – it was cleaned weeks ago – but Nate still feels more relaxed in it just knowing he was there. He also knows Walt would tell him he’s being ridiculous.  
  
He flips open the book and stares. It’s a reproduction of a painting he’s seen at the National Gallery – _Before the Ballet_ , 1888. The dancers are stretching, warming up in their white, fluffy tutus, getting ready to go onstage.  
  
What was Degas’ hard-on for dancers about, anyway? Of all the things to paint…Nate realizes that he doesn’t know any of the story there, despite the fact that he’s spent many hours of his life staring at these paintings and sculptures.  
  
He supposes that Degas’ reasons might reflect many people’s reasons for watching dance. To be part of the movement, perhaps. To better feel the music. The swirl.  
  
It’s one thing to want to watch people dance; it’s quite another to want to dance. Nate loves to watch dance, but that’s not what makes him want to dance, not really. When he was younger and just learning to love dance, he spent a lot of time mimicking the work of others, trying to be a part of their scene and their moments. On his best days Nate creates his own moments, and they resemble no one else’s.  
  
He shuts the book.  
  
He is still processing all the things Brad said. He can’t believe Brad thinks Nate is the one who has it easy. Then again, Nate doesn’t watch himself dance. He doesn’t know how he appears to the audience. No matter how much he practices in front of a wall of unforgiving mirrors and choreographers, he can never truly know what he looks like onstage.  
  
Brad loves the moments when no one else is watching. Nate thinks those are his favorite moments too – when he dances for himself, not for judges or family or friends, not for any choreographers or mirrors. When he dances just to dance.  
  
_You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching_ , he thinks, _and love like you'll never be hurt…_  
  
He blinks. He yanks out his iPod and flicks through his songs, finding the one Patterson chose for Brad and Nate.  
  
_It’s about needing something that hurts you_ , Patterson had said. _It could be dance._  
  
Nate feels like his limbs are charged with live current.  
  
_Yes_ , he thinks. _Yes, yes, yes._  
  


*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Brad, how did you know you wanted to be a dancer?  
  
COLBERT  
Because I couldn’t stop.  
  
*

  
  
“The only thing that makes it okay that I got voted off is that I don’t have to dance with either of you losers this week,” Ray says. “Do you know how screwed I would have been if they’d instituted this policy earlier? What if I’d had to do, like, a foxtrot with Rudy? I would’ve been trampled by his pointy shoes.”  
  
Nate doesn’t know where Ray came from or how he even got into the house, given that he’s technically no longer allowed to be here, but here he is, sitting on one of the kitchen bar stools and drinking orange juice straight out of the carton.  
  
“That would’ve been tragic,” Nate says.  
  
“Right?” Ray says. “So what are you going to do? Are you and Brad going to actually fuck on stage? Or is somebody gonna get shot?”  
  
Nate has to swallow rapidly to keep from choking on his coffee.  
  
“We’re going to dance together,” Nate says. “It’s not that big of a deal.”  
  
Ray examines him with skeptical eyes.  
  
“Seriously,” Nate says. “It doesn’t have to be that big of a deal. It can just be dancing.”  
  
“Even though you want to bone him and he’s totally in love with you,” Ray says.  
  
“How’s Walt?” Nate evades.  
  
“Fuck you, I’m not going to go for the shiny Southern bait,” Ray says. “You heard what I said, and you’re full of shit, Fick.”  
  
“Did you say he’s in love with me?” Nate says.  
  
“He’s in something with you,” Ray says. “And wow, for a smart dude, you sure are slow.”  
  
“Good morning, gents.”  
  
Brad is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, rubbing at his sleepy eyes. His hair is mussed, and one of his arms is imprinted with creases from his sheets.  
  
Nate’s never actually seen Brad right when he wakes up in the morning, because he always wakes up before Nate does. He’s kind of adorable.  
  
Nate pushes that thought away.  
  
“Get dressed,” Nate says, avoiding Brad’s eyes. “We’re leaving for the studio in 10.”  
  
“Bossy,” Brad says softly.  
  
“You know you love it,” Ray says.  
  
Brad turns his gaze on Ray, and Ray cowers.  
  
“How did you even get in here?” Brad asks.  
  
“The security guys like me?”  
  
“You need a life, man,” Brad says.  
  
“Walt’s in physical therapy and I don’t have anything to do,” Ray whines. “I missed you guys.”  
  
“You are really co-dependent,” Brad observes.  
  
“But I love you?”  
  
“Go get in the fucking car.”

*

  
  
When they arrive at the studio, Patterson takes one look at Ray and says, “No way.”  
  
Ray bristles. When he sees Patterson’s expression, however, he says, “So…I was thinking I’d go hang out with Walt.”  
  
Nate gives him an apologetic shrug, but Brad just shakes his head at him.  
  
“Catch you later, lovebirds!” Ray crows, and disappears.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Patterson says, “but I think you two need no distractions today.”  
  
Nate had sort of been hoping Ray could be a distraction, but he knows Patterson is right.  
  
“Have you been working on the routine?” Patterson asks.  
  
Brad just scratches at his eyebrow, but Nate says, “In a manner of speaking, yes.”  
  
“Don’t give me that Ivy League lawyer crap, Nate,” Patterson says. “Just show me what you’ve been doing.”  
  
Brad and Nate stare at each other for a moment, frozen.  
  
“Here,” Nate says.  
  
He grabs Brad’s arm and yanks him forward, startling him off-balance. Brad stumbles and recovers, eyes wide.  
  
“How you felt right then?” Nate says.  
  
Brad narrows his eyes at him.  
  
“That’s how you should feel this whole routine,” Nate says.  
  
Patterson is watching them both carefully, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything. Brad glances at him for guidance, but he shakes his head, barely a twitch.  
  
“Are you scared?” Nate asks.  
  
Brad looks at him like he’s crazy. “Nate—“  
  
“I’m fucking terrified,” Nate says. “Say you’re scared.”  
  
Brad opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, jaw locking.  
  
“Yes,” he says, voice low. “I’m scared.”  
  
“Good,” Nate says.  
  
He grabs Brad’s arm again and pulls him in. Brad is ready this time, and maintains his balance, though his eyes still show nothing but fear.  
  
“Dance with me,” Nate whispers.

*

  
  
Four hours later they know the routine from start to finish, every step, every twist and turn, every balance shift and lift and jump. Brad is almost entirely silent as they rehearse, responding to Patterson’s direction with nods and grunts, never meeting Nate’s eyes.  
  
That doesn’t stop Nate from trying to catch Brad’s gaze. He is done being afraid of Brad, of whatever this is between them.  
  
He is going to keep looking at Brad until Brad looks back.  
  
That afternoon Nate rehearses hip-hop while Brad is sequestered in another room with Carly and Sixta. His skin burns, his muscles ache, and it feels fucking amazing. When he and Laura make it through the routine smoothly for the first time, Laura stares at him for a long moment.  
  
“Holy shit, Nate,” Laura says. “Did you eat your Wheaties this morning?”  
  
“Woke up on the right side of the bed,” Nate says.  
  
“Whose bed, is what I want to know,” Laura mutters, quiet enough that Ferrando doesn’t catch it, but Nate still pinches her elbow in retaliation.  
  
“Let’s do it again,” Nate says, and Laura shoots him a wicked smile.

*

  
  
That night – the last night before the finale – silence hangs heavy over the house. Nate lays on the bed in Walt’s room and tries to read his book on Afghanistan, but nothing about it makes sense, not even the individual words on the page. There’s nothing on TV, and he can’t decide what to listen to on his iPod. Sleep is definitely not happening. Finally, he pads out into the living room, hoping the change of locale will force his brain to shift too.  
  
Brad is crouched in the center of the living room rug, stretching. He has one leg extended and the other curled in, his hand wrapped around his flexed foot. Nate can see the knobs of his spine pressing through the fabric of his undershirt.  
  
He wants to trace them with his fingers, to feel the shape of Brad, what holds him together.  
  
Brad hears him enter and unfurls his body, focusing his eyes on Nate. He looks tired, as tired as Nate feels.  
  
“I thought you were asleep,” Brad says.  
  
Nate shakes his head. He sinks down onto the rug, legs crossed.  
  
“We have to do solos tomorrow,” Brad says. “I almost forgot.”  
  
Nate didn’t forget. He knows exactly what he’s going to dance to. He choreographed it last night during his many sleepless hours, trying different moves, consulting the Degas book, playing the song he chose over and over again.  
  
“More _Swan Lake_?” Nate asks.  
  
Brad shakes his head.  
  
“I have to admit, I didn’t think you would do something so…conventional,” Nate says. “I mean, it was beautiful! But I thought—“  
  
“Conventional?” Brad arches his back. “Have you ever seen Matthew Bourne’s _Swan Lake_?”  
  
Nate hasn’t, though he has heard of it. The “gay” Swan Lake. Because ballet isn’t gay enough.  
  
“Don’t tell me what’s conventional,” Brad says, his voice laced with bitterness. “Shakespeare’s pretty fucking classic too, but that doesn’t stop people from reinventing his 400-year-old plays.“  
  
“I wasn’t trying to say—”  
  
“You know, some people become dancers because they want to dance like somebody,” Brad continues. “Some people do it because they want to dance a particular piece or routine or with a specific choreographer.”  
  
He rises to his feet, towering above Nate. He looks frightening above him, intense and angry.  
  
“Some people do it because they want to dance to certain music, to make a piece of music come alive,” Brad says. “Those are the great dancers.”  
  
He turns away.  
  
“Watch some Matthew Bourne, Nate. You’ll understand.”  
  
Nate goes back to his room and tries to sleep, but when it still doesn’t come, he uses his iPhone to watch YouTube videos of Matthew Bourne’s _Swan Lake_.  
  
The costumes are ridiculous, feather-covered breeches, but who is Nate to judge a dancer’s sartorial choices? He finds himself riveted on the lead swan – his movement is so bird-like, so angular and twitchy, then so smooth and fluid. As Nate watches, the dancer transforms into a bird before his eyes, a bird-human hybrid who leaps and flies and mourns his lover, sinking to the ground and nudging him with his head as if to say, _Don’t leave me. I can’t live here alone._  
  
Brad was right; this is not like any ballet Nate has ever seen. As he watches – once, twice, three times – he conjures up images of Degas and his only-female ballet dancers, beautiful but always missing crucial pieces. Bourne, he realizes, is filling that gap. He is placing male ballet dancers front and center, saying, _look, look, there is nowhere for you to look but at us.  
  
We are here_ , Bourne seems to be saying. _We will die onstage every night for you, and we will never go away._  
  
Nate thinks Brad may have just answered his question of several weeks ago: _Why did you decide to do ballet?_  
  
Being a male ballet dancer is no act of compliance. There is nothing traditional about it. To be a ballet dancer is to say _screw the status quo, fuck what you think._  
  
Ballet is Brad’s revolution, part of the war he’s fighting.  
  
Maybe it’s time that he knows he’s not fighting it alone.

*

  
  
Nate spends the morning rehearsing alone, as none of them are scheduled to rehearse together before the finale. It’s sort of Zen. He’s beyond the point of nervous, living in that strange middle space that’s half panic and half apathy. _This competition doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things_ , he thinks, and then wonders what that means, _the grand scheme_. He concentrates on the rhythm of his breath, the give and take of the inhale-exhale.  
  
Before he knows it the hours have peeled away, leaving him backstage in the dressing room in costume. He rubs lotion into the skin of his hands and stretches his calves. Tonight he got to choose his own costumes for his number with Brad for the first time. When Nate asked Patterson what the costume designer wanted them to wear, he gave Nate a look like he’d grown a second head. “Do I look like I give a shit? Wear what makes you feel like yourself.”  
  
Nate’s wearing a simple pair of jeans and a white t-shirt for his solo – nothing more, nothing less. He and Brad are wearing sweats and tank tops for their routine, which, given the number of lifts and dips they have to do, seems practical. Neither of them are concerned with being flashy; they want their movement to speak for itself.  
  
He hears someone clear his throat behind him, and he turns to see Walt. He’s seated in a wheel chair in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
“Holy shit,” Nate breathes.  
  
“I know, I know, I’m a sight for sore eyes, I’m awesome, etcetera,” Walt says.  
  
“You bet your ass you are,” Nate says, and leans down to awkwardly embrace him. Walt smells like Tiger Balm and cologne, and he’s as warm as ever.  
  
“You think I was going to miss this?” Walt asks. “Especially after Ray told me you and Brad are doing an actual mating dance?”  
  
Nate’s shoulders tighten. He is okay with this. He is. But part of him knows that whatever happens tonight between him and Brad, it will be more than dancing, and it’s fucking terrifying.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Walt says.  
  
He reaches out and encircles Nate’s wrist with his hand.  
  
“Jesus, Nate,” he murmurs. “I thought I was the one with a crippling injury.”  
  
“It’s not like that,” Nate scoffs.  
  
“What’s it like?” Walt asks.  
  
Nate never got used to that – the direct way Walt asks questions, no pretensions, no silly euphemisms. _You don’t hide anything_. That’s what made Walt so striking onstage – he’s so young he doesn’t know how to protect himself, how to put up walls.  
  
“It’s like – I don’t know what I’m going to do when I’m around him,” Nate says.  
  
Walt scans Nate’s face like he’s looking for clues. He’s so pretty. _Why couldn’t I fall for Walt?_ Nate thinks. But he knows you don’t choose these things: not who pulls you in, not how you fall.  
  
“Just do it,” Walt says. “Forget the fucking steps.”

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
What’s your worst dancing experience?  
  
FICK  
When I was ten, I fell during a recital.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Did you get in trouble?  
  
FICK  
No way. Nobody even noticed. People never notice. You’re always your own worst critic.  
  
*

  
  
Nate knows the stage lights will be hot. He shifts from one foot to the other and waits for the lights to flash, for the music to begin.  
  
He wants this solo to be his best. He also wants it to be a goodbye. He’s not sure what he’s saying goodbye to: not dance, not the people he met here and the friends he made, but perhaps just _this_. Standing on a stage alone in fear. This he is ready to leave behind.  
  
For the first ten seconds he feels everything, every stretch of tendon and muscle, every bone shift, every old injury, every new ache. Then something changes. _Click. Click. Boom._ He is the music. He is here.  
  
Nate doesn’t feel his body at all.

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
What’s your worst dancing experience?  
  
COLBERT  
That’s a difficult question.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Why?  
  
COLBERT  
I’ve never had a bad dancing experience, because everything I’ve done as a dancer served a purpose and made me stronger. The only bad dance experience I ever had was when I wasn’t dancing, when it wasn’t part of my life anymore.  
  
*

  
  
Nate watches Brad take the stage with some trepidation. He never knows what to expect when Brad is up there – beautiful dancing, yes, but ever since last week and the sucker punch of his _Swan Lake_ solo, ever since watching him at the concert…Nate doesn’t know what chink Brad will reveal, what secrets he will tell, how he’ll blindside his audience.  
  
Brad is wearing khaki pants and a black t-shirt. His feet are bare and his head is bowed. When the lights come up they are dim, and Brad’s large frame casts shadows on the floor. The dark slivers trail his feet like demons.  
  
The song that bursts free of the speakers is not from a ballet. It’s not even classical. It’s loud and raucous and jarring. It’s also, Nate realizes, the band they went to see a couple nights before. Nate’s no expert on their music, but when he closes his eyes he can feel the heat of the club, smell the mingled sweat and beer and smoke and see Brad, jumping up and down, a goofy grin plastered across his face.  
  
The dancing Brad is doing now is not the same as the dancing he did in the club. There are more pirouettes and leaps, his feet arched and his spine rod straight. But what Brad is doing is not strictly ballet either. It’s some sort of dance fighting fusion. His leaps become karate kicks, a flick of his wrist becomes a punch. It’s intensely masculine and graceful and frightening and completely and totally his. It’s a _fuck you_ to every person who ever told him ballet was for pussies, who ever made him feel like it was a hobby or a phase or anything other than a way of life, a reason for living.  
  
For the first time, Nate sees Brad-the-Marine on that stage – not some fictionalized fantasy version, but the real thing. He’s strong and angry and a literal warrior of dance, but for all the precision of his movement, he is a complete emotional mess. His face is a prism, shifting constantly, a thousand moods passing over him at once.  
  
_They called me the Iceman when I was dancing with the Los Angeles Ballet, Nate_ , he can hear Brad say. _It wasn’t a compliment._  
  
Brad’s solo can’t possibly last longer than a minute, but when it’s over, Nate feels like he’s been watching him for hours. He doesn’t even register that he’s done until they’re face-to-face backstage, Brad sweaty and panting, eyes wild. The air is filled with applause, but Brad looks like he wants to run, put miles and miles between himself and those who just witnessed that performance.  
  
Brad makes a move to bypass Nate, but Nate reaches out without thinking and presses his hand to Brad’s chest.  
  
“Nate, I can’t—“ Brad starts to say, but Nate is shaking his head, _no, no, not now, shhh._  
  
“Here,” Nate whispers. “Right here.”  
  
Brad’s heart is beating so fast Nate can’t distinguish the individual beats. He curls his fingers and feels something hard and metal beneath Brad’s shirt, but before he can ask, Brad gently lifts Nate’s hand and extracts a silver chain that encircles his neck.  
  
The chain bears two silver rectangles. _Dog tags_ , Nate realizes with a start.  
  
He knows, then, that Brad never takes them off. Nate never noticed before because he always assumed they were a part of him.

*

  
  
There are numbers in between – his and Laura’s uninteresting hip-hop routine, Carly and Laura’s jazz piece. He’s pretty sure Brad and Carly dance for the last time, but he doesn’t remember it. He feels drugged, like he’s wading through humid air. He doesn’t even know where they are anymore. He’s grateful for ground.  
  
When the host announces Brad and Nate’s names, the room fills with deafening applause. Nate folds himself into position and waits. He’s glad that at the beginning, at least, he and Brad are facing opposite ways.  
  
The instant the music starts, the bass thumping along a steady, raunchy drumline, Nate feels his body engage like someone’s flipped a switch.  
  
_Sometimes I feel I’ve got to…run away_ , purrs the singer. _I’ve got to get away from the pain you drive to the heart of me…_  
  
Brad slides his arm around Nate’s waist and lifts. Nate’s legs fight gravity, scissoring. He braces himself on Brad’s hip, feeling the solid muscle there. When he falls to the floor he doesn’t fear it, knowing it will hold him up, that Brad will support him.  
  
Nate begins to see the story evolve through the movement. _Back and forth, give and take_ , Patterson had told them during rehearsal. _You want what’s not good for you, you want what’s hard, but it’s hard because it’s right._  
  
Nate shoves Brad away and Brad falls, his tumble more of a slow descent than Nate’s, careful and controlled. When Brad falls, he’s not falling as much as he’s allowing the ground to rise to meet him.  
  
Nate presses his fingertips to Brad’s chest, touching him through his black tank top. Brad wore some black in every routine today; Nate wonders what he’s mourning. He feels the smooth heat, almost brushes a nipple. He sees Brad’s face shift, his features softening and his skin tinting pink.  
  
He wants him so much in that moment, wants Brad with no audience, wants to dance with Brad like no one’s watching. He’s tired of this hold-release, the back-and-forth, the thrust, the grind, the lift. He wants real closeness. He wants to stop performing.  
  
He wants Brad. He doesn’t want to dance anymore.  
  
The song shifts, and Brad shoves him with such force that Nate can’t recover his balance in time. He goes sprawling. Brad’s lips part and his eyes widen. This was not in the choreography. These are not the steps.  
  
_Don’t touch me, please_ , the song continues. _I can’t stand the way you tease._  
  
Brad kneels down to help Nate up. The music fades out – their time is up. Brad holds out his hand.  
  
Nate takes it and lets Brad pull him forward.  
  
When they’re close, Nate tilts his chin and kisses him.  
  
Brad stiffens but doesn’t retreat. Instead he lets go of Nate’s hand and cups his face, licking his mouth open. Nate bites Brad’s lower lip, breathing hard against his mouth, letting Brad inhale his exhale.  
  
The stage goes dark and silent. For a single, terrifying moment, no one applauds. Then the audience begins to clap – reluctantly at first, tentative – but soon it grows louder, and shouts and shrieks fill the air.  
  
Nate’s glad the audience liked their routine, and he hopes Patterson was satisfied. But mostly he is glad for Brad’s slow, thorough kisses, his hand in Nate’s hair, his knees snug around Nate’s hips. He is glad that Brad kissed him back, that he kept kissing him after the music stopped.

*

  
  
“Fuckin’ A, Nate,” Laura says, hand wrapped in a vice grip around Nate’s arm. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Nate flushes, and Laura’s mouth quirks into a smile.  
  
“ _Before_ you made out,” Laura says. “That whole routine – it was incredible.”  
  
“Patterson is a genius, he—”  
  
“With all due respect to Patterson, that was all you and Brad,” Laura says. “Don’t delude yourselves. There is no way other dancers could have done that the way you two did.”  
  
Nate wipes a hand across his forehead. He’s covered in sweat. All he wants is to go back to their quiet house and stand under hot water for days. He doesn’t see Brad anywhere.  
  
“Nate Fick!”  
  
Speak of the devil. Patterson is making his way over to Nate, smiling wide. It’s a little disturbing – Nate’s not sure he’s ever seen Patterson smile.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Nate says, “for choreographing for us. I know it wasn’t easy, but—“  
  
“Nate,” Patterson cuts him off. “What you two did up there? It was more than I ever could have asked for. You never looked like that in rehearsal. You – I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if it was practice or magic, but you made that routine your own.”  
  
“I tripped at the end,” Nate says. “I didn’t mean—“  
  
“Jesus Christ, Fick,” Patterson says with a wave of his hand. “Fuck it. No one cares. You’re amazing. You know, when I was dancing, I wasn’t half the dancer you are technically or otherwise, but what I had going for me was I’d do anything to make a dance come alive. Anything.”  
  
“Sir, that can’t be right,” Nate says. “You practically reinvented dance. I’m just starting out.”  
  
“Look, don’t argue with me trying to give you a compliment,” Patterson says. “You are fucking incredible, and you put everything you had into that dance. You should be proud.”  
  
He squeezes Nate’s shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  
  
“You are right about one thing, though,” he says. “You are just getting started.”

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Do you have advice for young dancers?  
  
HASSER  
I _am_ a young dancer.  
  
PERSON  
Stay in school, and only do as much drugs as you can handle. Even dancers look dumb when they’re wasted.  
  
FICK  
I don’t know. I think…be real. Don’t pretend onstage, because nobody wants to see dancing that’s fake. Be yourself.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Brad?  
  
COLBERT  
If dancing is what you know you want to do, don’t let anybody take it away from you. Screw anybody who tries to take you down.  
  
*

  
  
Brad disappeared after their final number, vanishing into the ether like a ghost. Nate tried to escape and follow him, but couldn’t – too many admirers, too much advice. _It’s not over yet_ , Nate wanted to say, but nobody wanted to listen. Truthfully, tomorrow is only an epilogue. Nate’s always known who was going to win.  
  
But tonight, Nate finally did what he came to this competition to do.  
  
He and Brad mattered on that stage. They mattered separately, and they mattered together.  
  
Nate finds Brad sprawled on their living room couch, nursing an amber-colored drink. He’s wearing loose sweats and no shirt, and he doesn’t open his eyes when Nate shuts the door with a click.  
  
“Don’t go anywhere,” Brad says.  
  
Nate freezes. He drops his gym bag to the floor and slips off his shoes.  
  
“As I remember, I’m not the one who’s always running away,” he murmurs.  
  
Brad opens his eyes, settling his gaze on Nate.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says.  
  
It’s not what Nate was expecting him to say. He was bracing himself for some sarcastic barb or joking response, or maybe even an angry denial.  
  
Nate really needs to stop assuming he knows what Brad will do in any situation.  
  
“What are you sorry for?” Nate asks.  
  
Brad pushes himself up into a seated position and makes room for Nate on the couch. Nate approaches cautiously, then perches on the edge.  
  
“I knew from the beginning you were going to be a distraction,” Brad says. “When you hit on me at that party, I got…scared. I really wanted to win this, and if I’d let myself be distracted by you, I’d never have had a chance.”  
  
“Worked out pretty well for you then,” Nate says. “You never seemed distracted.”  
  
Brad lifts an eyebrow.  
  
“Are you kidding me? I was dying, Nate. I knew you were hot. That much I could handle, even when they kept clothing you in leather. I had six years of being in the military to teach me how to ignore how much I want someone. But there was something I wasn’t counting on.”  
  
Nate watches Brad and sees the way different emotions flicker across his face, sad to angry to sad again. It’s fascinating, trying to read Brad. He’s coded and open all at once.  
  
Brad exhales.  
  
“I wasn’t counting on you being such a good fucking dancer,” he mutters.  
  
Nate lifts his eyes to Brad’s.  
  
“You don’t have to say that,” Nate says. “You know you’re going to win, you don’t have to build me up—“  
  
“Nate,” Brad says. “ _Stop it_.”  
  
Nate can still hear it – his father’s voice, soft but deadly.  
  
_This dancing, where will it take you? There are a million people like you. Impossible dreams, no grip at all on what’s real._  
  
Brad sits up and uses the stereo remote to raise the volume. What was a quiet whir becomes louder, slow but steady and rhythmic. Nate can feel it in his toes. He feels it everywhere, in the tips of his fingers and his wrists and his lips and his hips. The music straightens his spine.  
  
“You like her, don’t you?” Brad says softly. “I thought—“  
  
_Someday he’ll come along_ , Etta James sings, _the man I love…_  
  
Nate stands and moves without thinking, without letting himself think. He hears the words that come out of his mouth before he thinks them:  
  
“Dance with me.”  
  
Brad is smiling now, barely a flicker across his lips. He stands, and his hands find Nate's hips like they were formed around them. His fingers press into Nate's sides, a gentle guiding pressure. Nate melts into him until they are part of the same liquid movement, until they are dancing.  
  
Brad slides his hands under Nate's white undershirt, palms flat over his stomach. Nate knows he must feel the way Nate's breath catches. He pushes Nate's shirt up and over his head. Nate lets it go and with it all his anxiety, all the voices in his head. Brad is so warm against him, their bodies lined up perfectly. Nate lets his hand drift down to grasp Brad's ass, and Brad pulls him impossibly closer, kissing his neck.  
  
_He’ll look at me and smile…I’ll understand…and in a little while…he’ll take my hand…_  
  
Nate winds his hands around Brad's neck, tilting his head back so they can kiss, a soft meeting of the lips that becomes more. Brad's hand tightens on Nate's waist as he licks into Nate’s mouth.  
  
Nate is so glad for Brad's hands, because he doesn't know how much longer he can stay upright, not when Brad keeps kissing him like this, kissing him like they're dancing, slow and sweet and never stopping, never stopping.  
  
Brad laughs quietly, and Nate realizes he’s been talking, whispering nonsense between kisses because Brad has destroyed all his filters. Brad looks at him and the tilt of his mouth is amused, but his eyes are filled with warmth.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Nate says. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”  
  
“You know what you’re doing,” Brad says, “and you’re doing just fine.”  
  
Brad spreads his fingers across Nate’s stomach, creating prints of heat against his skin. Nate exhales a ragged breath and slides his hands over Brad’s shoulders, feeling the tight muscle there under the warm, smooth skin. He skims his hands over Brad’s chest, his nipples hardening under Nate’s fingers. He drinks in Brad’s little gasp and shivers when Brad presses his hand into the small of his back.  
  
“I’m serious, I really don’t know what I’m doing,” Nate says, and it comes out as a nervous laugh he wishes he could’ve swallowed.  
  
“It feels like you know,” Brad says. “Just dance. You wanted to dance, right?”  
  
Nate wants to do a lot more than dance with Brad, but when Brad maneuvers their bodies so Nate is practically straddling his leg and presses into him hard, he thinks maybe dancing could be a step in the right direction.  
  
Brad is holding Nate up now, grinding their bodies together to the rhythm of the song, and Nate lets him do it. His eyes flutter closed. He lets Brad hold him and move him in whatever way he wants because this is what Nate wants too. God, does he want it.  
  
Nate opens his eyes, and the intensity of Brad’s gaze makes him feel like he’s got current running through him. Brad leans in and kisses him, biting at his lower lip. Nate moans into his mouth and tightens his grip on Brad’s shoulders, kisses him back with a ferocity that surprises him.  
  
He wants everything from Brad right now, everything he can give him and even things he can’t, everything, everything.  
  
He realizes then that Brad’s hand is hovering at the waist of his jeans, like he’s not sure what he should do next, but that’s crazy. Why would Brad think—  
  
“Do it,” Nate says.  
  
Brad undoes the button on Nate’s jeans, giving him a taste of that smirk that always makes Nate shiver, and says, “I do like when you’re bossy.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you like it,” Nate says. “We should stop chatting and you should jerk me off.”  
  
“Yes _sir_ ,” Brad says, and wraps his hand around Nate’s cock so fast Nate bites his lip and tastes blood.  
  
“Don’t hurt yourself now,” Brad says, and kisses him, a leisurely, lingering kiss like he’s savoring Nate’s mouth as his hand slides up and down Nate’s cock.  
  
“Jesus,” Nate says, panting. “Brad, I—“  
  
“Yeah,” Brad says, voice stripped. “You are so—“  
  
“I want to touch you,” Nate says. “I want—“  
  
He pushes his hand between their bodies. His hand finds Brad hard and not wearing underwear. Brad hisses through his teeth when Nate finally touches him, pushing his cock into Nate’s fist.  
  
It feels like the song stopped long ago. All Nate can hear is the sounds of their moans as they jerk each other off, moans muffled by kisses.  
  
“This isn’t like any dancing I’ve ever done,” Nate gasps.  
  
“But it’s the best kind,” Brad says, voice hoarse.  
  
Nate comes all over Brad’s fist, hips bucking, groaning loudly.  
  
“Nate,” Brad whispers, and comes nearly silently, eyes squeezed shut, panting.  
  
They stand there for a moment, sticky and sweaty and sated.  
  
“Fuck,” Nate says.  
  
Brad opens his eyes, and his gaze burns.  
  
“I’m going to run some hot water,” he says.  
  
“I have candles,” Nate blurts out.  
  
Brad stares at him, then smirks.  
  
“Who are you, Nathaniel Fick?”

*

  
  
“Dear sweet holy God,” Nate breathes as he steps into the tub, feeling the water swirl and coat his aching muscles. “Why haven’t I used this before?”  
  
“Because we’re both masochists,” Brad says.  
  
He’s watching as Nate slides under the water. His eyes flash, dangerous.  
  
“I am never leaving this house,” Nate says. “I’m never leaving this _tub_. Someone is going to have to drag me out.”  
  
“Is that all it would take?” Brad asks. “A big enough hot tub and you’d move in with me?”  
  
Nate’s mouth drops.  
  
“Are you asking me to move in with you? One hand job and you already want to shack up? How long has it been since you got laid?”  
  
Brad’s mouth curves. He steps into the tub and sinks down into the water, wrapping his arms around Nate’s waist and pulling him into his lap.  
  
Nate is a little embarrassed at the sound he makes, he’s not going to lie.  
  
“You were saying?” Brad murmurs in Nate’s ear, his tongue darting out to trace the rim as his hand flattens against Nate’s stomach, skimming over his abdominal muscles to stroke along his cock.  
  
“Fuck you,” Nate grits out.  
  
“Mmm,” Brad says. “Not until we’re married, honey.”  
  
Nate grinds down into Brad’s lap, eliciting a moan.  
  
“Wouldn’t that just suck?” Nate asks. “If I wouldn’t put out until we’re married? I am Catholic, you know.”  
  
“You already put out,” Brad says. “You can’t be that Catholic. And you’re from Baltimore, right? That’s awfully close to D.C., and I think we can get married there.”  
  
“You’re full of plans, aren’t you?”  
  
Brad leans in and drops a flurry of kisses along Nate’s neck. Nate feels surrounded by warmth, above and below, Brad’s hands everywhere and his lips at his throat.  
  
“Maybe I want you to move in with me so I can watch you dance every day,” Brad whispers.  
  
_Maybe you can_ , Nate thinks, and lets Brad’s mouth find his.

*  
  
CASEY KASEM  
What would you be doing if you weren’t a dancer?  
  
FICK  
Finishing college, definitely. Maybe going to law school.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
You want to be a lawyer?  
  
FICK  
No, not really. But being a dancer is hard on your body, and you can’t do it for long. It would be more practical to be a lawyer.  
  
CASEY KASEM  
Do you think you should do what’s practical?  
  
FICK  
I think you should do what makes you happy.

 

 

  
  
  


  
  
**DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION**  
_Brad Colbert dishes on becoming America’s Favorite Dancer, life after dance boot camp, and - oh yeah – that one time he kissed Nate Fick._

  
  
**REPORTER** : Tell us about winning.  
  
**COLBERT** : I don’t think of it as winning. I think of it as a 20-way tie.  
  
**REPORTER** : Oh, come on, you beat everyone by, like – how many votes?  
  
**COLBERT** : Everyone I competed with deserved to win that title. Anyone could have won it.  
  
**REPORTER** : But you did win. What are you going to do now?  
  
**COLBERT** : I’ve been given an opportunity to dance in England as part of Matthew Bourne’s company.  
  
**REPORTER** : So, ballet?  
  
**COLBERT** : Yes, but different than the ballet I’ve done before. The show was good practice - I’m working all the time, all day, every day. Being in his company is very demanding.  
  
**REPORTER** : Working too much?  
  
**COLBERT** : No way. This is what I love.  
  
**REPORTER** : Do you know much about what the other contestants are doing?  
  
**COLBERT** : Yeah, I do. We keep in touch. Nate is part of a contemporary company that’s touring Europe right now. Ray is doing some kind of hip-hop gym trainer thing? Rudy is setting up this organization that teaches ballroom dancing to kids…Laura and Carly and Tracy are all dancing with companies…  
  
**REPORTER** : Walt was the big story of your season because he got injured.  
  
**COLBERT** : Walt is doing amazingly well. He’s recovered from surgery and is training again, and he’s already got an offer to audition for a contemporary company when he’s ready. It’s the same company Nate is with, in fact.  
  
**REPORTER** : You and Nate caused quite the stir with your final routine…  
  
**COLBERT** : Yeah, I guess we did.  
  
**REPORTER** : You want to talk about that?  
  
**COLBERT** : (chuckles) Not really.  
  
**REPORTER** : But you two remain friends.  
  
**COLBERT** : Absolutely. Nate is a great guy and an incredible dancer. I would go as far to say he’s my favorite dancer, in fact.  
  
**REPORTER** : Do you think you’ll ever dance together again?  
  
**COLBERT** : We dance together all the time.

**Author's Note:**

> Falling Apart to Half Time  
> Dance Set List
> 
> Week One
> 
> “Undisclosed Desires” – Muse (Nate – Contemporary)  
> “Closer” – Ne-Yo (Brad – Hip-Hop)
> 
> Week Two
> 
> “Caramel” – Suzanne Vega (Nate – Rumba)  
> “If You Need Me” – Solomon Burke (Brad – Contemporary)
> 
> Week Three
> 
> “Blue Suede Shoes” – Elvis Presley (Nate – Jive)  
> “Break Your Heart” – Taio Cruz (Brad – Disco)
> 
> Nate Solo (dances for his life): “Crazy” – Ray LaMontagne
> 
> Week Four
> 
> “Touch” – Johnny Lang (Nate – Jazz)  
> “Cupid” – Amy Winehouse (Brad – Waltz)
> 
> Solos: 
> 
> “Swan Lake, Op. 20” (Brad – Classical Ballet)
> 
> Week Five
> 
> “DJ’s Got Us Falling In Love Again,” Usher (Nate – Hip-Hop)  
> “Voodoo” – Adam Lambert (Brad – Jazz)
> 
> “Tainted Love” – Pussycat Dolls (Nate and Brad – Contemporary)
> 
> Solos:
> 
> “Around the Horn,” The Bronx – Brad (Classical Ballet)  
> “Speechless,” Lady Gaga (Nate – Contemporary)
> 
> \+ Bonus track: "The Man I Love," Etta James

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Falling Apart to Half-Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/473871) by [fandomfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan)




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